


Smoke Break

by kingthezeke



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Body Worship, Breathplay, D/s, Decadence, Dirty Talk, Falling In Love, First Love, Fluff, Historical Cameos, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mafia War, Mafia-AU, Plot Twists Everywhere???, Rough Sex, Sexual Tension, Size Kink, Slow Burn, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2018-07-16 17:06:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 39
Words: 105,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7276540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingthezeke/pseuds/kingthezeke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fox hears the rabbit scream, and he comes running (but not to help.).</p><p>Detective Alexander Hamilton gets caught up with New York’s most luxurious, debauched mafia. Too bad he falls in love with its ruthless boss.</p><p>***NO UPDATE SUNDAY OCTOBER 8th. Check notes on Chapter 2 of <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/11935692/chapters/27739740">Metamorphosis</a> for details.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Killing of a King

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: this fic is very lengthy and can kind of be intimidating but I promise it's not bad. ilysm for makin it this far & I hope you enjoy!
> 
> This is going to be very gruesome, because my writing tends to be that way, lol. This is the second modern-AU I have done for this fandom, and most of you liked the last one, so I decided I would keep it up. 
> 
> **The tags will be updated as necessary. 
> 
> The chapters in this story are probably going to be shorter than the ones in MVNB, which is perfect because I'll be able to upload faster and more frequently. 
> 
> Fair warning: this is a MAFIA AU, in other words, organized crime. A large scale gang, basically. I'm doing my research to make this as accurate as possible, but I will say this: there are no good guys. They're A L L bad guys. But the question is, which of them are the least bad of the bad guys? No one, that's who. When you got skin in the game, you stay in the game. But you don't get a win unless you play in the game.
> 
> There will be a lot of hot sex & a ton of pining, so there you go. 
> 
> WARNING: burn is EXCEEDINGLY slow.
> 
> With that being said, enjoy.

_NOVEMBER_

_Hamilton shook his head, absently staring at the stack of papers as his mind worked. “The suspect was rushing; the murder was hectic and spontaneous. Look at how he choked her with her own belt—he wasn’t planning on her being home—he didn’t bring a weapon, but somehow, he already had her keys.”_

_“A copy?”_

_“Office said it was an original.”_

_“So he’d been there before? Or stole it from someone?”_

_“More than that, Commissioner,” Hamilton replied, a smile spreading onto his flushed face. “He was welcomed there.”_

_“Excellent work, Detective,” Commissioner Louis Capet XVI swiveled his chair around, greeting him with his own smile. “As per usual. Brilliant.”_

_“Thank you, sir.”_

_“Have you been keeping up with the news?”_

_Hamilton shuffled his feet a bit in his own chair, flipped the folder closed. This was what he had been trying to avoid. He’d intended to leave before it got to this point, but obviously, it had been too late to tiptoe out, hoping the Commissioner wouldn’t notice. News could have meant gossip or broadcasting, and it wasn’t mutually exclusive. But anytime Commissioner Capet mentioned ‘news,’ it had something to do with his little underground gamble, and Hamilton didn’t want to be involved. “You mean National news?”_

_“I mean Washington Syndicate news, boy,” the commissioner chuckled, bright eyes sparkling over the rims of his glasses. Of course, it was. The Washington Syndicate was one of the most notorious mafias on the east coast. And Commissioner Capet was playing with fire while his clothes were drenched in gasoline, in a house built of matchsticks and dry firewood. “Remember the agreement Washington and I had a while back?”_

_“I told you, you can’t negotiate with domestic terrorists, sir,” Hamilton frowned, voice low. It was a bad idea for the commissioner to grant Washington, the godfather of the Syndicate, immunity, along with some of his capos. The deal was, he’d get it if he’d gotten his men to leak information from other smaller drug rings, in return. Risky, but worth it._

_“Detective, I appreciate your concern but it’s been said and done. I can’t have those hooligans running amuck, tearing New York to pieces. We needed him on our side. He’s a powerful enemy.”_

_“And since when does the NYPD strike up peace treaties with mafias?” Hamilton whispered, narrowing his eyes. The blinds had been snatched closed, and Commissioner Capet had been watching the door as he spoke._

_He sat back in his chair, complacently. “The DEA, FBI and the NYPD are discussing a raid.”_

_“On the Syndicate?” Hamilton was startled, confusion evident._

_“Don’t look so worried,” the Commissioner chuckled._

_“That could be very, very dangerous, sir. First of all, you’re very accessible. They will_ know _it was you…and you gained his trust so you’re—?”_

_“Trust means nothing to me when it comes to gangs, Detective. I have a city to protect.” He stood, maneuvered around his office, and began watering his plants._

_Hamilton twisted his body, to follow him across the room with his terror-stricken eyes. “Sir, this is not just any_ gang _. It’s the mafia. It’s the_ Washington Syndicate _.”_

_“Hamilton, these men are criminals.” He sounded unapologetic as bitter finality and confidence molded his words once more into an authority figure. “As you said, I cannot negotiate with terrorists. I have one of the biggest mafias in the Western Hemisphere on my side: the US Government. We were discussing a drug raid on a factory we found in underground Manhattan.”_

_“But, with all due respect, sir, you’re in the NYPD. Why don’t you let the FBI and the DEA handle this?”_

_“It’s my raid.”_

_“They’re letting you conduct this?”_

_“Detective, I’ve been in this business a long time. If I’ve been working on this plan for nine months, you think I’m gonna hand it over to some fancy guys in suits? No, they’re going to let me conduct the raid and the plan.” Commissioner Louis winked, but returned to his single sunflower, on the windowsill. “A magician never reveals his tricks.”_

_Desperate for anything that could slow him down, Hamilton remarked, “That isn’t even your jurisdiction.”_

_Commissioner Capet stood up, pleased. “A lot of his men are either goin’ to jail or dying, son. And no jurisdiction in the goddamn world would pass that up. There’s somethin’ in it for everybody.”_

_“Sir, have you really thought this through? You_ know _they will not hesitate to kill you; you’re gambling your life with stone cold killers.”_

_“Alexander,” Commissioner Capet said simply, with his back to the detective, staring out of the window. “Do you know why I chose this life? Serving my community?”_

_“This is no time for anecdotes, Commissioner.” Hamilton murmured. He could not believe the man could go off on a tangent at a time like this._

_“I did this because if I could keep this city safe, I would pay whatever price. My life, among them. I’m willing to die for my people, protecting them and serving them. And that decision isn’t for everyone.”_

_It wasn’t an argument the detective could win. He simply sighed in defeat, mumbled a, “Yes, sir.” Upon gathering his things, he left without another word._

* * *

 

_JANUARY_

If Washington’s men are an army, Washington is the General. Plain and simple. That is his calling card throughout the country. No one’s sure who he is, and Hamilton has never seen him before. Perhaps no one has, or everyone has, without realizing who they’d seen. That’s the mafia code of silence: _omerta_. There’s the rumor of him being the most powerful man of his family in decades. He doesn’t like publicity, it seems.

The bullpen office is steel grey and smells of ammonia. Telephones are ringing faintly, with officers and detectives wandering around in their coats with their scarves bundled up around their necks; their gloves and mittens are _not_ coming off. A power surge during the blizzard compromised their heating units, apparently. Oh, that sweet New York weather. The florescent lighting doesn’t help; it only gives people migraines and flickers when a door is slammed too hard. Commissioner Capet’s bronze nameplate on his office door has been replaced with one that reads “ _Commissioner_ _Robespierre_ ,” whom no one particularly _likes_ , but he gets the job done, and that’s the most important part. He’s a small man, with deep-set eyes and thin, dry lips. What he lacks in height and build, he makes up for in voice and power. A formidable man with a short temper. Oh, joy.

Hamilton’s stomach lurches when he’s handed the police file pertaining to the gruesome murder of Commissioner Louis Capet. Kidnapped from his apartment, tortured for 72 hours, and decapitated. Body dumped behind a cathedral. Classy. Hamilton has his eyes on the Syndicate as probable cause, and he is belligerently determined to track them down, even more than Robespierre would be, if he’d known. The problem is, no one really knows where their headquarters are located; the Syndicate is all over the country. They’re New York based, though. Why else would the General have befriended the NYPD Commissioner? Hamilton’s partner, Detective Hercules Mulligan is reviewing the case file with him.

“I told him not to do it,” Hamilton mutters over and over again. “I told him not to. I told him it was a bad idea. Now look.” The pictures are objective and solid, right there in his hand. Like the Commissioner was just any other victim, and not his boss. His mentor. His friend. There’s going to be a ceremonial burial tomorrow afternoon. Hamilton has already observed a speech the mayor gave in his honor. The police force still doesn’t know about the bust, nor does the public. If they did, it would directly connect Capet to the Syndicate. Hell, the public doesn’t even really know about the depth of the Syndicate. Everyone has only heard of them as a street gang, and this is partially because the New York government has done their best to downplay and conceal it from the citizens. However, the sudden calling-out would take the General down, no questions asked, but it would blow everything else up. But on top of exposing the General, he can’t reveal that Commissioner Capet was playing friendly with one of the Underground’s Finest. That would certainly raise some questions. And not particularly desired ones, for Capet, Hamilton, or the entire police squadron. So, Hamilton couldn’t pitch the theory without context at the press conference, without baffling the United States, so he didn’t even bother to attempt to make a statement.

“This is so crazy. One of our own.” Mulligan grumbles.

Hamilton sighs. “He’d want us to stay focused. To figure this out with a clear head,”

“God rest his soul.” Mulligan’s silent for a moment. “He was such a good guy.” Other than that, he doesn’t have much of an emotional response. Mulligan isn’t an emotional guy, and he didn’t really have a personal relationship with the Commissioner, the way Hamilton did.

The folders lay untouched before them for another moment, as Hamilton stirs his coffee and mutters bitterly, “Robespierre cleaned his office out pretty quickly.”

His partner shrugs. “We needed a new commissioner, especially dealing with something like this. The whole fucking country is on our doorstep, and we need to close this case before it gets any bigger.”

“Which is why I have a theory.”

Mulligan’s look is expectant, clicking his pen casually.

“I was thinking the Syndicate.”

His partner is taken aback. He watches Hamilton, in case it’s a joke. But when he sees that his large, dark eyes remain steady with fire, he chuckles uneasily, “Easy, Tiger.”

“Just hear me out.”

“Why does the Washington Syndicate, _specifically_ , stick out like a sore thumb to you?” Mulligan asks skeptically. “Why not the Jeffersons? The Jeffersons kind of have the guillotine-thing down as their method of murder. Plus, we know Capet tailed them and had that whole intersection shoot out, and shit, when his transport from the harbor went wrong.”

“Yes, but that was last year. Why would Jefferson go after him now?”

“Wasn’t it last year around this time? That took a lot of money out of his pocket that year. About a million dollars. Mafias exist to make money, and Capet was responsible for a huge hole in Jefferson’s pocket. Maybe he wanted revenge.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t prove anything.”

“And you think pointing fingers at the Syndicate does?” Mulligan demands, a bit aggressively.

“So you really think the Jeffersons are behind this one?” Hamilton sips his coffee.

“I think they’re a better bet. Better than the Syndicate.”

Hamilton shrugs. He can’t tell Mulligan. He wouldn’t be able to tell him how he knew, without looking like he was in on it, because he wasn’t. He thinks about it (or doesn’t) and blurts out, “What if, _hypothetically_ , Capet had a truce with Washington, and then he did this huge drug bust on Christmas Eve? Totally unexpected. Let’s say about fifty of Washington’s guys were there; most of them were killed. The rest barely escaped with their lives. Hypothetically.”

There’s a moment of awkward silence as Mulligan regards Hamilton, scrutinizing him. “Are you feeling okay, Alex?”

Hamilton’s eyebrows furrow. “Capet told me. For nine months, he was infiltrating the Syndicate. He was leaking information about smaller rings, Hercules. He kept me posted, in case anything like this happened.”

“Even if that were true, the General’s got a strategy of no surrender,” Mulligan replies oddly. “He’d find ways to kill his own men in prison if he suspected they’d talk. He’d kill anyone who could connect him to that murder. You got nothing.”

“False. I’ve got _motive_ , and I’ve got _Washington_.”

“But the _Jeffersons_ decapitate people, Hamilton. That’s their MO. And sure, you got the Syndicate as the main suspects, but wouldn’t it make sense if the Jeffersons retaliated?”

Hamilton smiles. “Outside of Commissioner Capet and the head of the DEA, I was the only one who knew about this operation. The fucking FBI had no idea.”

“I suggest you keep it that way,” Mulligan scoops his copy of the case file up. “I’ll be at my desk taking collect calls for the funeral if you need me.”

“Hercules!” Hamilton stands up, pushing his chair back with the force. “Wait a minute. Don’t you believe me?”

He looks over his shoulder. “Alex, listen, you’ve got a good head on you. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll drop this and never speak of it again.”

It seems like everything is drained of color when Hamilton’s shoulders drop and his face falls. “You’re not going to help me?”

Mulligan crosses his arms. “You need to listen to me. You’re a rookie, Ham. Even if you _were_ on to something, Robespierre would never put you on it. Save yourself the trouble and leave the Syndicate out of the equation. I don’t wanna see this blow up in your face.”

He watches him walk away, but the only thing he can feel is the rage in his stomach, boiling up to his ears. His face flushes when a few detectives snicker at how ridiculous he must look. He snatches the file, his coat, and his coffee up and heads for the door, muttering about how annoying older partners are.

* * *

 

“ _Monsieur_ Hamilton!”

“ _Monsieur_ Lafayette,” Hamilton greets dully. “I won’t have anything to drink anything today.” The bar is slow, with smooth jazz playing lightly to relax the atmosphere. Not many people are here, which is a good thing. Tuesdays are chill days. Or at least they were.

Lafayette shrugs, cleans the bar idly. “You are doing the frown, _mon chou_ , _ça va_?”

Hamilton chuckles, but his shoulders are still slumped and heavy as he sighs. “I dunno, Laf. This detective business is hard. I hardly do as much detecting as I do paperwork.” Mulligan had him look over traffic tickets, since they were short on staff today.

“You do no have to lie to me, _Jambon_. I hear the Commissioner is dead and I am sorry for your loss.” He cleans a glass. “Come on, have one on me.”

Can’t ignore goodwill. Hamilton sits back, props his head on his hand, watches Lafayette pour him a whiskey and muses, “It just doesn’t make sense. If the General hates the spotlight so much, why would he do something like this that would draw so much attention to himself?”

Lafayette’s eyes avert to meet Hamilton’s. “The General of the Syndicate? You think he is the one responsible?”

Hamilton shrugs. “What do you know about him?”

“He is what we would call a mystery. Why are you so interested suddenly?”

Another shrug. “Wild theory.” He accepts the glass, tips it up to the barhand in a salute, and takes the shot. “What happened to your hand?” It’s bandaged tightly under a cast.

“I fell on it, trying to bathe my cat,” Lafayette replies simply. “Do not ever get a ferocious feline, _mon ami_. They hate the water almost as much as they hate their owners.”

“I prefer birds. Except parrots. Parrots are creepy as fuck. With their beady ass eyes.” He’s prepared to pull his phone out and show him a picture of parrots and their beady ass eyes, but Lafayette asks,

“What proof do you have, regarding the General?” He continues to clean the counter, only with much more interest.

“Aw, c’mon, Laf. You know I can’t talk to you about the case. And especially not this one.” Hamilton turns the glass over on the counter, grinning at the immediate heat in his stomach. The good kind of heat, not the anger that usually occupies him. He decides to look up pictures of pigeons instead. He loves pigeons.

“ _Mais oui_ , _Jambon_ , but didn’t you ask what I know of him? I have worked in this bar for seven years, I think I may have something of interest to you.” His eyes glint in the dim light. “Quid pro quo.”

He considers it, the gears churning in his head, concentrating on his burning throat. “Why’re you so shady, all of a sudden?” He’s known the guy for about as long as he’s been working in the bar. But the wifi is slow, apparently, because the pigeons aren’t loading fast enough.

“I am only adjusting to the American Way of Life,” Lafayette chuckles. “I like to gossip almost as much as I like to hear it. Can you not indulge me, _chouchou_?”

Hamilton chuckles, sighs. He trusts the guy, and he needs someone to vent to. So, he says, “Fine. I know the Commissioner did a huge bust on the Syndicate a few weeks ago.” He doesn’t mention the deal yet. It’d be too much to explain right now. “Your turn.”

“One of his men owns the lounge on Mercer Street. _Ad Hoc_.” Lafayette replies.

Hamilton grins. Now he has a location. Perfect. He stands. “Thank you so much, Lafayette.”

“No, sit. There is much more to tell you, but I need more from you, first.” Lafayette pours him another drink, slides it to him across the counter. “Go.”

“Um, over the weekend, he mysteriously turned up dead. It was violent and bloody, and right now, the General has all the motive in the world.”

“How was he killed?” Lafayette inquires.

“Nope. Ball is in your court.” Hamilton takes the shot, turns the glass over again.

“John Laurens. A capo. If you can find him, you can find anybody, but do not go telling him you are a cop, _Jambon_.”

He etches the name into his memory, and then says, “Kidnapped, beaten, and decapitated.” Suddenly the alcohol isn’t sitting in his stomach right. “Tossed behind a church.”

Lafayette nods solemnly. “That is all I have to tell you right now. Are you going with that asshole partner of yours?”

Hamilton is distracted long enough to laugh. “No, Hercules doesn’t think it was the Syndicate. He has his eyes elsewhere. I’m doing this on my own, for now. At least until I can get a solid lead long enough to keep him involved, or convinced that I’m right. And I’m not going tonight, I have to get back to the office.”

“Say hello again to him if you see him,” Lafayette teases. “Give him a nice big kiss.” From what Hamilton can see, there’s an odd relationship between the two of them. Hercules is no-nonsense and aggressive, while Lafayette is cocky and arrogant. Whenever the two of them see each other, they bicker, although they don’t know each other that well. They’ve only met when Hercules stopped by to pick up his partner, and Lafayette happened to be working behind the bar.

They say their goodbyes, and the Frenchman watches the detective leave, waving goodbye and thanks again for the tips. He’d asked Lafayette not to breathe a word of it to anyone that came into the bar. He’d promised, and continued to clean the glasses, turning over the discussion in his mind.

At the end of his shift, another young man breezes in, hanging his coat on the rack. The sun has long gone down, and Lafayette is ready to bounce.

“Woo, it’s nice and toasty in here!” He tucks his brown hair behind his ears, ties it into a ponytail as he scans the deck. About four people are hanging out in the bar, but then again, it’s a Tuesday night, and everyone has somewhere to be. Even Marquis de Lafayette. “See you, Marq. Your ride is here.”

“ _Merci_ , Sammy,” Lafayette kisses him on each cheek, and departs through the back, scurrying to the car through the mountains of snow. He practically jumps into the passenger seat, happy to find that the heat is blasting.

The driver sighs. “Didn’t I ask you to shake out your coat and shit before you got in my car?”

“ _Il y a de la neige_ , it will melt.” Lafayette chuckles, pulling the door shut and strapping himself in.

“That’s the _problem_. And did you really have to call me an asshole?”

Lafayette grins. “I did not have a choice. It is the truth, Hercules. You know I speak tongue in cheek! Did you get the whole conversation?”

“Sent it to Greene. We’re on our way now to give Laurens the heads up.” He starts the car up again, pulls off of the side of the street.

Lafayette lights a cigarette, “He is a good kid. I wish he did not put himself in the line of fire, _oui_?”

Hercules shrugs. “He knows too much. Told him to drop it, but he’s like a Jack Russell terrier. The harder you shake it, the harder he bites. Whatever happens now, it’s his doing. We can’t save him.”

“We should keep an eye on him.” Lafayette mumbles, taking a drag. He flicks the ashes out of the window, considering this.

“He isn’t going to shut up about it,” Hercules mumbles. “The only thing stopping him from telling the whole goddamn country is Capet’s good name. Don’t wanna expose him as corrupt for trying to work in partnership with the Syndicate.”

“Would you?”

“My boss _is_ the Syndicate.”

“ _Mais, pardon moi, ma petite crotte_. You are but a simple soldier, _non_?” The question is almost wry, the way the Frenchman raises his eyebrow. “I am your boss, Hercules. The General has nothing to do with you.” The hierarchy of the crime family, was like any other. Lafayette has a higher rank than Mulligan, only because Lafayette earns copious profits for the family, through his latest scams. The lowest ranking, responsible for all the grit work, are the soldiers. A majority of the gang is in that position. The next step is the capos. They’re the respected ones, with their own troop of soldiers to command. There are fewer of them, and they make more money than the soldiers. Their boss is the underboss. In this case, it’s Nathanael Greene, the General’s closest friend—though, there really aren’t any friends in the mafia. Then, there’s _the_ boss, the one who gives the orders, makes all the money, and keeps the lowest profile. Even people within the Syndicate don’t know who the leader of the family is. That’s normal.

It’s better that way. 

* * *

 

Even though it’s snowing again, the riotous John Laurens greets them in his stark white dress shirt on the sidewalk, leading to _Ad Hoc_. His collar is hanging open, and he doesn’t appear to be wearing shoes. His huge grin is almost too big for his face, and his freckles disappear under the flush that spreads on his cheeks generously. “Marquis! Hercules!” He’s holding a half empty glass in his left hand, waving them in, under the copper-lighting and into the lounge. They walk in, one behind the other with John leading, observing men playing cards and gambling, dancers swinging on poles onstage, workers chatting behind the bars, and patrons drunkenly minding their own business. John leads them to the back, Hercules taking Lafayette’s coat, and pulling his chair out for him.

As they’re seated around a large table, John lets the man and woman at his side resume kissing his neck and the rings on his fingers. Hercules ignores it while the Marquis cannot seem to tear his eyes away from the spectacle. By the look on his face, Hercules would probably say it’s because the scene reminds the Frenchman of home. John’s honey brown eyes flutter shut and he sighs when the man nips with his teeth, so Hercules says,

“Hamilton will be here tomorrow.”

“Mmm?” It’s a lazy mumble from John as the woman beside him moves across the table, in Lafayette’s direction, who frantically scrambles for Hercules’ arm. “You mean the detective?” He opens his eyes, and they’re distant, but he snaps and the man and woman reluctantly leave. He’s still looking dazed as he takes a sip from his glass, offering to pour Lafayette one.

“ _Non, merci_. Laurens, we need your assistance.” He leans in, clasping his hands. “He knows about the bust. He’s trying to get to the General.”

“What bust?”

“The bust that killed Sonny and Nicky. He knows about it and he is trying to blame the Syndicate for the Commissioner’s murder, John.”

“Did the Syndicate do it?” He’s chasing the drink around in his glass with a straw, confusion settled in his knitted brows.

“I do not know, _ma bichette_. But it all seems very cohesive; it would make sense if we did and it is his word against ours.”

“Well, do you think it _was_ the Syndicate?” Laurens smiles.

The Marquis and Hercules exchange uncertain, quizzical glances.

“That’s what I thought. But no one can touch the General,” Laurens replies, bemused.

“No one except the FBI. And when he presents his case, who knows what he’ll find. All of us will get 150 years in prison, at the very least. If he finds anything even _remotely_ related to us, we’re fucked,” Hercules growls.   

“So kill him,” Laurens chuckles, looking back and forth between the two of them, like murder is the solution to everything. Well, in La Cosa Nostra, it is. “I know he’s both of you guys’ window into the NYPD, but I’m sure the don would whack him. You can find another scapegoat.”

Hercules frowns. “John, we can’t just put a _contract_ on him. He’s a detective.”

Lafayette shrugs, fixing his collar. “I say we set him up. It’ll look accidental.”

“Set him up how?” Laurens asks, face twisting into a frown. His eyebrows are furrowed, and the dim light appears to deepen the creases on his forehead. “Tie a piano to the ceiling with dental floss and have him stand right under it?” It’s meant to be a joke, but then he actually considers it. “If we set it up, it doesn’t matter how it looks, they’re gonna be looking at us.”

“He has not told anybody else about it, John.” Lafayette’s losing his patience. “But if we do not hurry this up, he will—ah, how is it said?—spill the beans!”

“What did I tell you about using those phrases from forty thousand years ago, Marq?” Laurens cringes.

“Have one of the Schuyler girls talk to him when he gets here tomorrow.” Hercules seems to have an epiphany. “Then we can let her father know he was chattin’ her up, flirting with her and all that. The geezer whacks him, doesn’t know he’s a cop, it doesn’t come back on us. Boom, problem solved.”

No one messes with mob women. The rule is, men cannot approach or talk to mob wives and daughters, without getting in trouble with the fathers, husbands, and brothers. In some cases, even the cousins, if they’re close. Phillip Schuyler is a well-respected capo in the Syndicate, with three beautiful daughters. Hamilton is quite, ah, reliable with the ladies. Usually, mob women are protected, and if Mr. Schuyler doesn’t take care of it, someone else certainly will.

“I think that sounds like a plan,” John replies, sitting back. “Now have a drink with me, to celebrate our impending victory."


	2. Peanut Butter Blues

In his dream, he’s running. Cold sweat, heavy chest, broad hands and thick heat in his lungs slow him down, though. He’s terrified, most of all. His fingers scramble for the blankets around him, tossing his head muttering shallow and distant “no’s”. He’s startled awake when a car horn blares outside his window, and he’s jolting and tripping over himself as he launches himself at the window, sees Mulligan’s awaiting convertible in his apartment parking lot.

“Shit,” he mutters, shoving the window open, glancing back over his shoulder to look at the time. It’s 8:45am, and Mulligan is his ride to work every morning. Except that today, Hamilton is running extremely late.  “I’ll be down in a minute, Herc!”

He shoves the window shut again, muttering a string of obscenities, grabbing a shirt and a pair of pants blindly from wherever his hands go first, and pulls his shoes on over mismatched socks while brushing his teeth, and tying his tie while he gets his briefcase together. His scarf, coat, and gloves are hoisted over his shoulder as he hustles out to Mulligans’ car sloppily. Luckily, though, he doesn’t drop anything.

Mulligan watches as he slides himself into the passenger seat, out of breath and pale-looking. His hair is a mess and the bags under his eyes are a deeper, bruised looking grey and red.

“You look sick as hell, man.”

Hamilton glances over at him briefly, with something of an exhausted glare. “I didn’t sleep too well last night.” His eyes are burning and his head is swimming. Usually, Alexander is quite the Morning PersonTM. He has a feeling that today will be a lot different.

Mulligan shrugs, and turns the heat off. Hamilton frowns, a look of disbelief plastered on his face, bemused that Hercules would turn the heat off while they’re in the single digits. He shudders again, rubbing his eyes with a long sigh. “I’m freezing.”

“You’re sweating,” Mulligan replies blandly, steering the car to get back on to the main road. “If you’re sick, I can just drop you off at home, Alex. It’s no problem. It’s flu season.” He’s distracted as he watches for passing cars, calculating when to pull out onto the street.

“No.” Hamilton says it so firmly that Mulligan’s jaw clicks shut. “I’m not sick, I feel fine.”

Mulligan’s cool palm is resting on Hamilton’s forehead in the next minute, and it drops down to his cheek as he turns his hand over to feel with his knuckles. “Alex, you’re running a fever.”

“I’ll break it, during the day. You’re not my mom; can you just drive?” As soon as he says it, he realizes the irony of his statement and rolls his eyes at Hercules’ snide chuckle, muttering a dry, “Yea, ha ha.”

“I’m just saying. You’re clammy and you look like you’ve been hit by a bus,” he doesn’t sound at all concerned, but Hamilton knows he is. He rolls his eyes as Mulligan continues. “I have a three-year-old daughter that rides in this car every afternoon when I pick her up from daycare. If she gets sick, I’m going to break your ass, do you understand me?”

“She’s three already?” Hamilton sounds surprised. He had sat in the hospital’s waiting room with Hercules while Trinity was being born. Damn. Time flies.

“Don’t change the subject, you little cock jockey,” there’s a laugh detected in his voice. “If she gets sick—”

“Yes, yes,” Hamilton groans. “I get it. I’ll wipe the entire car down with Clorox wipes when we get to the precinct.”

“And if you cough, do it out the window,”

“That’s fucked up.”

“You’re gonna be even more fucked up if Trinity gets sick, punk.”

Hamilton chuckles, watching the road. Hercules has a wry humor, which he can respect. And he also name calls a lot more than an average adult would. And, in the length of their partnership-slash-friendship, Hamilton has never heard him use the same insult twice. It’s no matter. Hamilton decides to try again with the case. “So, I got a location.”

“For?” Hercules doesn’t take his eyes off the road, but he’s opening a granola bar blindly against the steering wheel.

“The Syndicate.”

“No. You know the rules, Hamilton. No talk of work before we enter those glass double doors that serve as a portal to Hell with NYPD printed onto them.” He successfully opens his granola bar, but glances behind him to switch lanes.

“I know, but this would be more on our time. Off of work. I got a location from a friend of mine. It’s a lounge. You and I can go there together.” 

“I’d love to, but I’m a married man, Alex,” he chuckles, taking a large bite of the chocolate chip granola bar, munching complacently.

“That’s too bad,” Hamilton replies dryly. “But seriously, he gave me a name and everything.”

Hercules raises an eyebrow. “He gave you a name? Holy hell…Is it familiar?”

“John Laurens. A capo in the Syndicate.” Hamilton looks proud of himself. Mulligan is actually listening to him, even if his crunching is louder than the engine.

“And he just told you that?” His tone is bored.

“No; I, uh, told him about the case,” the rookie mumbles sheepishly.

“You did _what_?” Hercules shoots him a bewildered glare.

“Not any sensitive information. No details. Just the basics.”

“Did you give him your theory?”

“Yes.”

“Did you give him the cause of death?”

“Well, yes.”

“Did you tell him the condition Capet was in when we found him?”

“I mean, yea…”

“Those are _details_ , Alex! Jesus fuck!”

“He isn’t going to tell anybody!” Hamilton shoots back defensively.

“Who was it?” he demands. “Was it that fucking sod from the bar you always talk to?”

“Lafayette is not a _sod_ , Hercules,” Hamilton huffs, to which Hercules rolls his eyes. “And yes, it was Lafayette. But he gave me a name and an address, didn’t he?”

“For all you know, that could have just been a means for him to shut you up.”

“Would you like to go with me to see?” Hamilton offers, waggling his eyebrows.

Skeptically, Hercules asks, “You sure you’re not going to be in a hospital with that fucking fever by the time quitting time comes around?”

“Positive!” he beams.

Hercules rolls his eyes with defeat. “Fine. Fuck it.”

* * *

 

As promised, Hamilton breaks his fever during the day (it is not doctor recommended to work when you get sick.) though he doesn’t look any better. He scoops his shoulder length hair into a ponytail with the hair tie he keeps around his wrist and splashes water on his face to get some life back in his complexion. He’s pale as hell, and he looks like he used powder—his lips are a soft pink, though. He frowns at himself in the mirror.

“Why do I get so pale in the winter?” He asks Hercules, who is at a nearby urinal.

“I don’t fucking know, man. You see all this melanin?”

Hamilton chuckles. “I tan really well in the summer.” New York summers are pretty brutal, though.

“I’m hoping that weasel is at the club so I get to fuck him up, in case he tries to sell that information to the press.” Hercules’ voice is gruff and bitter. But he’s usually like that toward the end of the day.

“You’re not going to tell Robespierre on me, are you?” Hamilton’s voice is tentative and light. He can’t afford to lose his job right now.

“If you get a good lead, I won’t. But if it goes awry, it’s your ass on the open fire. Not mine.”

“What if I do both?” They both know it’s very Hamilton-like to do both.

“Then I’ll think about it,” he chuckles, shaking himself off, tucking himself back in, and zipping his pants up. Then he stops, watches Hamilton for a moment. “Listen… we’re going to a lounge owned by a capo, right?”

“Yea,” Hamilton replies giddily. “Exciting, right?”

Hercules shrugs, but in a low voice, he says, “That means some of the women in there are in the Syndicate… so, don’t talk to them. You could get, you know. Killed or something.” He washes his hands at the sink while Hamilton stares at him oddly.

“What makes you say that?”

“It’s the mafia, Alex. It’s what they do. So no women. Got it?”

Hamilton chuckles. “Don’t worry. I’m not the type to try to find love in a bar.”

* * *

 

“We should spilt up when we get there.” The rookie is restless, practically bouncing up and down. The sidewalks are frozen, and the road isn’t much better, even with the snow plows coming through. The sun has set, and the digital clock on the car’s radio says it’s 11:49pm. Hamilton is feverish.

“Alright,” Hercules mumbles. “Sit still. You’re worse than Trinity is when she eats sugar.”

“Sorry,” he chuckles. “It’s just—this is my first big case, you know?”

“What do you mean your ‘first big case?’ We said we were doing this on _our time_ , remember?” He doesn’t sound amused. “Robespierre doesn’t know you’re investigating the Syndicate. I suggest you keep it that way until you actually get something solid.”

“Right.” But Alexander Hamilton doesn’t keep things under wraps. He’s the type of guy that would expose his own torrid affair in a newspaper column, if he had the right resources.

When they get to _Ad Hoc_ , they split up, as recommended earlier. Hamilton walks in first, on his own, taking in the scene. Copper lighting is, as it turns out, a really good way to set up a lounge. It isn’t anything fancy, but it has a smooth, hazy golden look to it. The creaky swing music played over the speakers adds to the ambience of the 30’s. He’s mesmerized by the décor, and he feels as though he’s in some rendition of the Great Gatsby, or some other required reading material from high school. It’s a swaying song, one that makes him think dancing with someone would come naturally, just holding them in his arms, rocking with them with their eyes closed and seeing their—

“Watch it, tosser.” He hears from behind him as a large man shoves past him. It takes him a moment to realize it’s Hercules, but he takes a deep breath, and swallows the scene before him. The trumpets and piano swell over his head, and he finds himself grinning. He walks in, moseys up to the bar as a quintet begins singing in their 30’s fashion, voices blending precisely.

“ _Pardon me, boys, is that the Chattanooga choo-choo?_ ”

He seats himself at the bar, looking around. The air smells like cigarettes and whiskey, and the people are dressed rather nicely as they sway with their partners in their own little world. He isn’t sure what he was expecting, but this certainly was not it. A few guys are sitting around him; a few smile, another nods toward him politely. He smiles back. They look perfectly normal. Gentlemen. He isn’t sure where the Syndicate starts and ends. It makes him nervous, in the back of his mind.

The music has slowed to a languid trumpet lullaby, and the air slows to a sleepy rhythm. He looks over his shoulder, and finds Hercules sitting alone in his own space, watching the crowd, too. He doesn’t have nearly as much interest as Hamilton does, but he does have a drink. So, Hamilton decides he ought to, too. He spins around to face the bar again, and grins at the bartender, who doesn’t seem interested in a conversation.

He orders his drink, and then a few more. He can’t spot anything out of the ordinary, and he’s beginning to think he has the wrong address.

Soon, he spots a man, down the way, on the other side of the bar, flagging the bartender. He’s large, too. Bigger than Hercules, and Hamilton flushes when their eyes meet. He’s murmuring something next to the tender’s ear, but he doesn’t take his eyes off of Hamilton. Maybe it’s just his head swimming in this romantic, 30’s atmosphere, or the trumpets and saxophones lulling him, or the alcohol in his system, but he smiles at the man, who politely returns it. When he gets his drink, a bourbon, he sips it gingerly, and raises his glass some, in a salute. Hamilton returns this as well, watching the man’s features. Dark skin, caramelized by the copper lights over their head. Thick, full lips, a strong jawline, and heavy, sexy eyebrows. Never has Hamilton, in his life, found eyebrows sexually appealing, until this moment. Goddamn it.

The guy calls the bartender back over, and gestures in Hamilton’s direction, who looks away. He smiles shyly, fiddles with his glass, but a young woman sits down next to him, smiling at him, which startles him. Dark skin, gorgeous curly hair. She grins.

“Why’re you sitting by yourself?” she asks. Her hair is spilled around her narrow shoulders, and her sweet face doesn’t strike him as threatening, despite what Hercules warned him of.

He chuckles, sneaking a glance over at the guy across the bar, who is chucking, teasing him in a way. He answers the girl, “I’m just chilling.” He’d really like to get back to the silent flirting with the guy, though.

She smiles kindly. “I’ve never seen you before. My name is Angelica Schuyler.”

“Alexander Hamilton.”

“Where’re you from?” She asks, and she makes herself comfortable, resting her chin on her palm.

“Excuse me,” the bartender cuts in, addressing Hamilton. “The gentleman back there has sent you this,” he presents a drink. “And has offered to pick up your tab.”

Hamilton flushes, looks back over at the man, who smiles. And—he has a gap! Hamilton tries to disguise a grin, and thanks the bartender as he accepts the drink. “What were you saying?” he asks Angelica.

“I asked where your family’s from.”

“That doesn’t matter,” he says smoothly, still embarrassed about being an immigrant.

She chuckles, sips from her own glass. “My sister,” she gestures back to a fair-skinned girl with long, dark hair. “Thinks you’re cute.”

He smiles at her, but then his eyes drift back to the guy, who is minding his own business now. He bites his lip. Perfect. He looks back to Angelica. “Shall I meet her?”

Next, she’s leading him across the lounge, for him to speak to her sister. She’s sitting on a sofa, and when they arrive, she stands.

“I know it’s not the 1700s, but I couldn’t talk to you myself. I had to send my sister to get you,” she laughs, bashfully. “Elizabeth Schuyler. A pleasure to meet you.” They shake hands and he smiles oddly.

She’s beautiful, her eyes sparkling in the dim light. He can’t get the other guy out of his mind, though. He’d like to taste that drink.

“You can call me Eliza. And you are?”

“Alexander. Alex. Whichever.”

“Would you like to dance?” She giggles, gesturing to all the other dancing couples, and he flushes.

He leads her to the dancefloor, which is really just a clearing made for this purpose. Their bodies are pressed together, slowly swinging in a circle as her arms are draped around his neck, his hands splayed over her hips. Her head is laid snuggly on his chest, and it feels like they’ve known each other a lifetime already.

“This is nice,” she murmurs, and he closes his eyes the way he’d originally wanted to.

They’ve barely made it through the song before he’s being ripped off her and thrown to the ground.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” The man yells at him, grabbing Eliza by the wrist. “That’s my daughter, you fucking twit!”

He scrambles to his feet, straightening his shirt out, glaring at the old man as he dusts himself. Wisps of gray hair and a potbelly. He can’t see Hercules through the people swarming, but it’s no doubt he’s out there somewhere, and then he remembers why Hercules said what he said— _no mob women_. His next instinct is to punch the guy in the face, and so he does, flinging himself full force, knocking the old man back. There are terrified shrieks, some of them probably belonging to Eliza and Angelica.

“Hey!” he hears a few people yelling from across the lounge, and in the midst of his struggle, Hamilton finds himself being pulled off of the girls’ father, and a large, solid frame stands between the two of them.

“There’s been a misunderstanding, Phillip,” the man says curtly. “You’ll have to forgive him, but I can’t have you attacking all of my guests.”

Immediately, the old man looks at Hamilton, who is being guarded by the guy’s arm. And suddenly, he realizes that it’s the guy from the bar.

“My apologies, sir,” he says, lowering his eyes. And with that, the crowd disbands. The music hasn’t stopped playing, and something about that is a bit eerie. He could have been beaten to death in that very spot, and that music he loves so much would have carried on, like nothing was happening.

Hamilton looks away, trying to find Hercules, but he’s nowhere to be seen. He decides that he should probably go look for him, but he remembers that guy saved him (well, really, he saved the old guy), and so he has to thank him.

“Thank you, by the way,” he turns to face him. He’s even more handsome right in front of him. Broad shoulder and muscular biceps. He’s taller than Hamilton would have thought. “I’m Alex.”

“George.” They shake hands, and the heat between them is instant. “Would you care to join me back at the bar?”

Hamilton smiles, tucks the lose strands of hair behind his ear as follows behind George. He watches the way his shoulders look in the blazer he’s in. Smooth, strong and broad. Like he could just run his hands over them, and down his back. He gets the idea of touching him, but that would be weird. Maybe later. Always later.

He hops on the barstool next to George, back straight, shoulders back. He glances and sees George sitting, facing him, letting his legs fall open as he leans on the bar counter. A lot more casual than Hamilton is, his golden watch glinting in the light. “I’m guessing you’re always in trouble like that.”

Hamilton chuckles, eyes drifting down to his crotch. “I’m cultivating a reputation.” He flicks his eyes up to meet his, raising the glass to his lips.

It’s George’s turn to laugh, and he watches Hamilton sip his drink, watching his lips in a calm, observing manner. “That’s what the kids are calling it now?”

“What’d you say in your day?” Hamilton laughs, watching his face when he’s thinking.

“Being an asshole.”

Hamilton says, in his defense, “Old guy shouldn’t have touched me.”

“Phil’s a good guy. He was looking out for his little girls.”

Hamilton only scoffs in response. “He punches everyone who looks at his daughters?”

“I’m not sure. But Schuyler is a hot name around here… speaking of which, I’ve never seen you around here.” It’s a chuckle, coming from behind a bourbon glass.

“I’m getting that a lot.” The music is now a happy, jazzy tune. “Whose idea was it to pick this setting?”

“The owner’s. Business is pretty good, as you can see.”

Smalltalk isn’t Hamilton’s forte. He’d rather just get right to the fucking, but this seems like a reasonable guy—a guy old enough to be his dad. DILFs are kind of his thing, and this guy is a DILF if he’s ever seen one. But those _eyebrows_.

“I like your eyebrows,” he blurts out, deepening a shade in pink when he feels the alcohol kick into his system. That was dumb.

George chuckles. “Thank you. I try to keep up with them.”

“That’s hot.” It’s absent, and he catches himself staring at the man’s lips, and it turns out, George catches him, too. He returns it with a smile of his own, and Hamilton’s phone buzzes in his pocket. “Shit,” he mumbles, seeing that’s Hercules calling him. He answers, excusing himself as he wanders off to the men’s room. “Hello?”

“Alex? Are you still at the club?”

“Yea. Are you looking for me?” He looks around. It smells funny in here.

“We’re supposed to be solving this case. We both have work tomorrow; I hope you weren’t taking this as a night off.” He sounds irritated, but when is he not?

“You’re right; I’m sorry. I’ll get on it.” He exits the bathroom, sees George standing, with his belongings.

“It’s been a pleasure, Alex.” He nods toward him. “If it isn’t any trouble, we could exchange numbers and set a date for the future.”

Bashfully, Hamilton’s face flushes, and he nods. “I’d like that.” He could get used to seeing this man’s face.

As they trade phones, entering their numbers respectively, their hands brush, and it sends shivers up the rookies’ spine. He watches enters a few emojis behind his name, gives it back. Sees George has done the same. He smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> better landscaping equals more success.  
> -DJ Khaled


	3. & Melancholy Jam

After he pockets his phone and watches George leave, Hamilton gets back to work. The work he should have been on, anyway. He scans the bar for what might be the owner—the John Laurens guy Lafayette had mentioned to him. He should have asked for a description, at least, but then he spots Hercules, talking to a slim guy peppered in freckles. He watches them, for a moment. They’re casual, and familiar, exchanging laughs. So he goes back to work, watching everyone else. In his mind, John Laurens sounds like a heavy set guy, with a pot belly, and a gold chain draped over an open shirt, and a hairy chest, with a cigar hanging from clenched teeth. John Laurens sounds like any other bar-owning mobster Hamilton has ever seen in any movie. He groans. It’s going to be a long night. He can’t find anyone who matches that description. There’s no one circulating the lounge, and there’s no one on a throne overlooking their kingdom. But he does see Angelica and Eliza reclined on a sofa, sipping martinis and talking idly. He thinks better than going to talk to them.

After three minutes, he gets impatient and gives up. He decides to approach Hercules, who is still talking to the young man, showing much more interest than Hamilton has ever seen from him throughout a whole week, combined.

“Alexander?” Hercules doesn’t sound impressed at the sudden, uninvited popping-up of his partner.

“I don’t know what he looks like. I need your help,” he says awkwardly. The young man doesn’t seem to mind Hamilton’s butting into the conversation, so politely, Hamilton says, “Excuse me.”

“No, you’re straight,” the guy flashes him a grin as he sits back, pearly white teeth and a gold chain over an open collar. Never has a stereotype been so helpful. And also, Hamilton is not straight.

“I’m Alexander Hamilton,” he offers his hand, hoping to get a name out of the guy.

Taking it, he shakes firmly and shortly. “John Laurens.”

At the name, his heart drops, and he feels a grin spreading across his face. Holy cannoli, this is him. The guy he was supposed to be looking for all night. But did Hercules not know it was him, this whole time? He must have gotten his name—unless he was just chatting him up, to see what he knows about the Syndicate! A little bit of the good cop bad cop action. He can dig it. Suddenly, Hamilton’s admiration for Hercules swells, and he pats him on the shoulder.

“Well done, Herc,” he smiles with a wink. He turns back to Laurens, who hadn’t noticed the sidebar, and says, “That’s a nice necklace.” He cringes inwardly. That wasn’t very Bad Cop of him.

A snort. “It was my pops’.”

Hamilton thinks of something rude that a Bad Cop would say, and it tumbles out of his mouth before he can stop himself: “I thought it would have belonged to your grandmother. That’s a dainty little thing.” Hercules glares at him, but is relieved when he hears Laurens’ sudden laughter.

“You got a good eye on you, kid. Belonged to Gran’ma Laurens. Say, you ain’t a rat, is you?” He narrows his eyes, sitting forward. The air becomes very tense, as Hamilton weighs the options of making a run for it, or clocking the guy in the jaw. But suddenly, he’s laughing merrily again, inviting him to sit. “I’m only kiddin’, Sherlock. Wanna drink?”

Hamilton decides it’s a little too rude to decline a drink, especially if he wants to get to know the guy. He doesn’t seem tense at all. But maybe it’s just the alcohol in his system.

“Were you the kid fightin’ Phil earlier?” He taps his cigarette on the ashtray, and Hercules shoots Hamilton a glare. He chuckles, moves to scoop up a glass for Hamilton and a stout black bottle next to it. “Thought I recognized you. If he was anybody else, I’d’ve thrown you outta my bar. But it’s ‘bout time someone put that man in his place.”

Hamilton chuckles, but then remembers why he’s here. This guy most certainly _is_ in the Syndicate. And the Syndicate is responsible for the murder of his friend. He frowns, but he can’t give away his position as a detective just yet, no matter how obvious it is. He stands, forces a smile, and then tugs Hercules’ shirt. “A moment, please?”

They walk into the bathroom, and again, they repeat the routine from earlier. Hamilton at the sinks, Mulligan at the urinal.

“Do you even have a _plan_ , Alex?”

“No. I honestly didn’t think I’d get this far.”

“Me neither.” And it’s true. Hamilton’s supposed to be dead in an ally somewhere. They’re silent for a moment as Hamilton calculates and Hercules rethinks his decisions.

“Well, I can’t just walk up to him and demand that he confess,” Hamilton frowns at himself in the mirror. He really didn’t think this through. But then again, when does he ever think anything through? He’s reckless, sure, but he’s damn near close to a genius, the way his mind works.

“Woah, we’re not _accusing_ anybody yet, man,” Hercules snaps. “We’re investigating. And I’m helping you because I want to keep you alive. You’re in a lion’s den, Alex.” _Ad Hoc_ is really the least of their worries, from this point on.

But of course, Hamilton is oblivious.

* * *

 

The next morning, the fever hits full force, and Hamilton can barely open his eyes without his head pounding certain death into his temples. A migraine is putting stiff pressure on his eyes, and he buries himself under pillows and blankets to shield himself from the light. He’s groaning at his alarm clock, which cheerfully adds to his noise sensitivity, despite his desperation to stop it with blind swats at his nightstand. To no avail. He isn’t sure if it’s a hangover or the flu, or both, but his entire body is heavy and sweaty, and he can’t bring himself to move. He closes his eyes again, hoping the alarm clock shuts off on its own, only to wake him up again, five minutes later.

He drifts off to sleep again, trembling in a fetal position, forehead damp on his pillow, weakly bleating nonsense.

As he slips from consciousness, he’s languidly easing into a grand palace, drenched in sunlight, glowing gold and copper lighting, but the day rapidly falls into night and a multitude of stars are winking cheerfully in the clear sky. He can hear the distant swing music being played from inside, and thousands of people are filing through the doors, framed with columns, wound with ivy and asphodel. He’s led into the ballroom, where the thousands of people stand on the balconies and pits, in their gowns and tuxes, but one gentleman in a charcoal grey suit occupies the center of the ballroom dance floor. George. Hamilton approaches him shyly, but he’s swept off his feet instantly, swinging with him to a big band on the platform. It’s lively and odd, considering he’s never danced to swing music this way before, but the crowd is clapping and cheering them on. It’s not romantic, ballroom waltzing, either. It’s loud and exciting swinging to shiny, copper saxophones and silver brass trumpets. In the corner of the room, a large grand piano twinkles to them in their skip-like dancing. They spin and lock fingers and when their eyes meet, George gives him that million dollar smile, and suddenly the world stops and melts around them, flitting bits of the palace away all at once, like a flutter of butterflies, raining diamond clear mist with every beat of a billion wings setting sail. Hamilton is standing a vast distance away from him, and George offers his hand. It’s romantic, and his senses fill with his scent. The memory of the pine and bourbon flood back, and he’s in paradise, with this man he just met. An enigma. His savior.

“Alexander,” his voice rolls out, echoing in the empty space. Even though he’s far away, his voice is close, like he’s right in front of him, all around him. Beneath him is nothing, but a reflection, like a mirror, and the heavens above are a hell beneath them, in the mirror. Then George’s reflection shifts into a gargoyle in the suit, with long talons and beady eyes and scales. The George before him remains the same. “Alexander,” he says again, stepping forward. But this time, Hamilton steps back.

“Are you with me?” His smooth voice is now gravelly and more rugged. “Come on,” he sneers. “Stay with me.” There’s a hand on his forehead, and he’s suffocating, George’s face inches from his. His eyes flash, and,

“Alex! Wake up! Trinity, go wait in the hallway, baby. Alex? Alex!”

His eyes snap open.

“Fuck, man, don’t scare me like that!” Hercules’ eyes are wide and full of concern, and his voice has risen a few octaves. “I thought you were having a seizure. Are you awake? Do you need me to call an ambulance?”

However, there is no response, only dull, distant staring from the rookie detective. Hercules bites his lip in anticipation. “How many fingers am I holding up?” He holds up his thumb, index finger, and his middle finger.

“Two,” Hamilton groans, and a look of sheer horror passes over Hercules’ face as he checks his own hand before he jumps to any conclusions.

Nope, he’s definitely holding up three. “Okay, don’t worry,” he says, turning to gather clothes to get his partner dressed. “We’ll get you to a hospital. Don’t worry, Alex.”

“Your thumb isn’t a finger,” Hamilton sits up, rubs his eyes. “So, technically, you were holding up three _digits_ but only two _fingers_. Next time, if you decide to hold up your thumb, ask how many ‘digits’ you’re holding up. Your thumb is technically a pollex. Pollexes technically aren’t fingers. By definition.”

“And you’re _technically_ an asshole by definition,” Hercules growls over his shoulder as he rummages through Hamilton’s dresser, in search for clean clothes.

“Actually, Hercules, by definition, I’m a human. I can’t be an _asshole_ b—”

His partner shuts him by stalking across the room to Hamilton and grabbing him by the collar. “Fuck you. When I say wake up, you wake the _fuck_ _up_ , goddamn it. Don’t ever scare my little girl like that, do you hear me? Don’t scare _me_ like that.”

“I’m sorry,” his head is still swimming. The sudden humbleness displayed by such an avid spirit seems to take Hercules down a few notches. Especially because he never apologizes.

“What happened? Did you hit your head or something?” His voice is gentle as he releases his grip on the soaking wet Princeton Alumni t-shirt. He still doesn’t know why the kid went to Princeton to become a cop.

“No, I think it’s a cross between a hangover and the flu.” Hamilton is sickly by nature. This isn’t anything he can’t handle. He realizes that his sheets are damp with sweat, and he decides he should go shower, but Hercules is still staring at him wearily. “Why don’t you go take Trinity to daycare, Herc?” he suggests, gesturing to her, peaking shyly around the corner in his doorframe. “I’ll be fine.”

“I just picked her up from there,” Hercules says oddly, and shoos her off to go play in the living room. He’s eyeing Hamilton more intensely now.

“What?” He checks the clock. It’s 7:30pm. He groans. “ _What_?”

“I figured you weren’t coming in today after last night. You drank a lot, and it was pretty late. Crashed in here the moment I hauled you in. I stopped by this morning, you hadn’t come outside, so I just went to work. Told Robespierre you weren’t feeling well. I sent you a few texts during lunch hour. You didn’t reply; figured you were sleeping off a hangover. But then I tried calling you on the way to Trinity’s daycare _after_ work, and you didn’t pick up, so I came to check on you after I got her. You stopped breathing when I checked your temperature and then you started convulsing.” He doesn’t look up from the ground, this time. Quietly, he adds, “You really scared me, Alex.”

He rubs his face, and pinches his nose bridge in an effort to relieve the tension on his eyeballs. Immediately, his thoughts are consumed with his work. He needs something to focus on, something to divert his attention with. “So, I want to go back to see Laurens.”

“What? No, Alex, you need to rest.”

“I won’t be able to rest until I find out who killed Louis,” he’s adamant about this, but ignores the burning in his muscles as he pulls himself out of bed.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Hercules demands, exasperated. “You could have _died_ just now.”

“I almost-die a lot.” It’s true.

“I think you need to come off this case for a while, Alex.”

“Why are you so adamant in trying to stop me from doing this, Hercules?” Hamilton whines, overwhelmed by the dream, and his current condition. His head is throbbing, every bone in his body aches, his mouth and throat are dry, and his feet are cold. “You’ve been badgering me since I got started, and now you’re telling me to sit this out?”

“It’s because I care about you, Hamilton.” He looks bewildered. “It’s because you have no idea what kind of trouble you could get into, going after the Syndicate like that.”

“And?” Hamilton barks, jabbing a finger into his partner’s chest. “You know what Commissioner Louis told me? He said this lifestyle isn’t meant for everyone. I was just as scared as you are now, Hercules. I begged him not to go after them, but he did it, anyway. Look at where he is now!”

“Fucking dead, Alex! Dead, behind a church, with his head cut off! Is that what you want, too? If it turns out you _are_ right, do you want that to be how your family discovers you?” Hercules’ voice has risen to a yell too, and they’re now in a shouting match. Then, he remembers that Hamilton has no family. Not outside of Louis Capet, and their bond was inseparable. And now Hercules is really Hamilton’s only friend. He instantly closes his mouth, upon realizing what he’s said but there’s a heavy slap, and suddenly his cheek stings. Did Alexander Hamilton just fucking slap him? It appears so. In disbelief, he touches his cheek with his cool fingertips.

“He died a hero,” Hamilton says, voice low, eyes angry and blazing. Tears are threatening to fall, but he won’t allow it. His hand is throbbing now, too. “Don’t you _ever_ disrespect him like that again.”

“Baba?” they both hear from the doorframe, and they’re met with Trinity’s wide, tear-stricken eyes, when they look toward the voice.

“I’m trying to protect you,” Hercules growls toward Hamilton. “But fine. You wanna be selfish? Go right ahead.” He snatches his coat and steers Trinity out of the room. He pauses as he puts his coat on, glances back at his partner, speechless. He simply shakes his head, and leaves without another word.

When Hamilton hears the front door shut, he plops back on his bed and sighs heavily. He decides to check his phone. Sure enough, he’s greeted with:

 

 **Herc!  
** _im omw man hang tight_

 **Herc!  
** _Alex?_

 **Herc!  
** _Call me when you read this, man_

 **Herc!  
** _(2) missed calls_

 **Herc!  
** _Alex_

 **Herc!  
** _Yo_

 **Herc!  
** _Aye, you good?_

 **Herc!  
** _Alex im at work. Lemme know if you need anything_

 

He frowns.

So the fucker really does care about him.

And he just slapped him.

Perfect.

He should apologize, but his phone buzzes twice in his hands.

 

 **George** **  
** _Are you busy tonight?_

 

Suddenly, he remembers the dream and his heart stops for a second. He wonders what kind of bullshit his subconscious is trying to pull on him. He must not want himself to be happy. But how accurate are dreams, anyway? He rationalizes that a good dream was bound to take a turn for the worst if his body’s vulnerable right now. Thinking of a response he texts back, _I’m not feeling well today. Saturday?_ and goes to prepare a hot shower.

* * *

 

“We’re goin’ to see Uncle Laf, Trin,” Hercules’ tone is light as he keeps his eyes on the road. “You like that?”

“Yea!” she shrieks from her car seat, happily flailing her arms, but cuddling her stuffed monkey to her bosom. She’d named him Moose. She goes on babbling nonsense as Hercules thinks about the situation with Hamilton. 

He could just hand the kid over and be done with it. But Hercules doesn’t even think the Syndicate put the hit out on the Commissioner, in the first place. It’s extremely difficult to stop Hamilton once he gets started.

It was the Jeffersons. He’s sure of it. But he has to get him to forget the gang notion entirely. That’ll get him killed, without a doubt. And if he can’t do that, he has to at least figure out a way to get Hamilton onto _their_ trail. He, like most of the Syndicate, doesn’t really know who the General is. But they know he’s a classic guy, and he prefers to keep a low profile. He has his graves pre-dug when he puts a hit out on somebody. Dumping their bodies is rude, sloppy, and unnecessary. He grips the steering wheel so tightly, his hand cramps. Trinity’s gentle cooing behind him calms him down again, and he lets out a sigh. She’s singing one of those annoying showtunes form those children’s cartoons she watches. He glances at her in the rearview mirror, flashing her a smile when she giggles and hides her face behind Moose.

He’s not even sure she knows what a moose is, for real. She probably just strung a few sounds together. That works, too. Or maybe she’s learning. They grow up so fast.

He pulls into the parking lot of Lafayette’s townhouse complex. He can see from here that his lights are on, and sighs heavily. It’s starting to snow again, so he bundles Trinity and carries her to the lobby. All the while, she’s singing a vaguely familiar song, but it’s probably only familiar because of how often she’d watch Nick Jr. in the morning and how often he’d brush her hair into the two puff balls on her head those mornings.

He holds her tight in the elevator, waiting to arrive at his boss’ floor. The doors slide shut, and he wonders what punishment he’s going to receive for Hamilton not being dead, like they had initially agreed. His boss is going to have his ass, but he’s going to protect Alexander, no matter how severe the punishment is in the end. **  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't enter the emojis behind the names like I wanted to, but if i could have, George would've had the eyes emoji & the little lipstick kiss, and Herc would've had a smiley behind his name.
> 
> You probably know by now that comments make my day & I need you to do me a flavor!  
> In the comments, or in my [Inbox](http://romaas-aesthetics.tumblr.com/ask) on Tumblr, tell me what you think of Hercules' character! If you think he's a good guy or a bad guy, or somewhere in the middle. Discuss with me or other users what his typical archetype would be (and I sound like an English teacher now) and why he is the way he is. I like thought-provoking characters, and Herc kinda straddles the fence, I've noticed. Do you think he has good intentions? 
> 
> Or don't lol


	4. Girls Love Beyonce

His heavy boots clunk on the soft carpet, his little girl cuddling Moose as she falls asleep on his shoulder. He knocks on the door graced with bronze and gold plated 1777, listening for his rustling around. They’re standing there for a moment so Hercules begins to get restless, and he’s prepared to knock again, but it’s opened slowly and hesitantly by a naked young man, with dark brown waves and wide gray eyes. His skin is a dark tan, and his face flushes at his state of undress.

“Who is it, Benjamin?” Hercules hears the thick, lazy slur from a drunken Lafayette, somewhere in the back of the room. “Tell them,” he hiccups, “That we are—how is it?— _doing the dance without pants_.”

“I can see that,” Hercules says, loudly enough for Lafayette to hear, and he watches Benjamin’s face flush darker as he sinks further and further behind the door.

“Oh! Is that my favorite soldier?” Lafayette sounds pleasantly surprised as he waltzes to the door in a satin silk robe, with his initials stitched into the left breast. His face lights up when he sees Trinity knocked out on Hercules’ shoulder, beams at how precious she is. “It is!”

“Sir, we need to talk,” Hercules’ voice is low. His eyes are steady and wide as he keeps them trained on his boss’ face, long enough to see his reaction.

With a skeptical look, Lafayette shoos Benjamin inside, steps out temporarily to speak to Hercules in quiet privacy. He tightens the sash around his waist to keep the robe from falling open, and Hercules can smell the scotch on his breath.

“I am _busy_ , Hercules, _quoi de neuf_ [1] and why could it not wait?” His voice is low and he looks troubled.

“It’s Hamilton.”

He watches, almost in slow motion as Lafayette’s face twists from what used to be comfortable pleasure to tempting rage. Like a fire licking at a lamb. “ _Quoi_ [2]?” The single syllable is harsh, as he can see on Hercules’ face that the job didn’t go through.  

“He…got away. Last night. I don’t know how.” His grip tightens instinctively on Trinity’s pink bubble coat when Lafayette takes a step toward him. “Apparently he got into the fight, like we planned. John saw him. But he came back about a half hour later. He wasn’t even bruised up. Not a cut, not a scrape. Either he won, or someone broke it up.”

“My guess is that he won. Phil is, what, eighty now?”

“He’s 52.”

 Lafayette’s angry sneer leads Hercules to stare straight at the wall as the Frenchman menacingly circles around the Syndicate soldier. “So did he talk to John Laurens?”

“Yes, sir. I was there with him when it happened.”

“Do you know what happens if we do not get this boy and kill him, Monsieur Mulligan?”

For the sake of Lafayette’s temper, he says, “No, sir.”

“It means he gets to the boss. Do you know what happens if he gets to the boss?”  

“No, sir.”

He hears a blade click behind him. He tenses up. “Take a guess.”

“You’re going to kill me?” He would laugh at himself, but he wouldn’t put it past Lafayette. The guy can be a great person to drink with and fuck, but at the end of the day, he is no less bloodthirsty or money-hungry than any other mobster in the Syndicate. On top of that, he’s Hercules’ boss, and a good capo keeps their soldiers in line.

“ _Mais, non_ [3], Hercules. More than that. You see, if he gets to the boss, the entire empire will crumble at our feet. I have the deepest affections and sincerity for our _tête de chou_ [4], and if Hamilton gets him, we are all going down. That means I lose money. If I lose money, I cannot support my family in France, do you hear me, Hercules? If I cannot support _ma famille en France, il est de votre tête sur un bâton_ [5]. _Oui_?”

Hercules doesn’t speak very much French, but Lafayette is drunk and angry, so he’s surprised he’d managed as much English as he did. “Yes, sir.”

“If I do not have the boy dead, in a week,” Lafayette growls, flipping open the switchblade. “I take out one eye. Two weeks? I take out the other. When I run out of eyes, I will take your fingers.”

Only Lafayette. Of course. “Yes, sir.”

“When I run out of fingers, I take your toes.” His eyes fall to Trinity. “I know how much your family means to you, _Hercule_ [6]. I have a wife and a son back home in Paris. I would do anything to protect them, the way I know you will do anything to protect your daughter. I do not want to hurt you, but I must provide for my family. You understand, do you not? Would you not kill a man if it meant your daughter would eat tomorrow?”

“I would,” Hercules admits, uneasily adjusting to Lafayette’s crooning.

“So then you understand that I do what I have to do for my family.” He clicks the switchblade closed. “I will let you off with a warning, this time. I will give you one week to kill him, and I want evidence that he is dead; if you want to keep your eyes, I suggest you do that.”

“Yes, sir.” Trinity is snoring softly by his ear, and he’s prepared to leave, but Lafayette says,

“I will put a contract on him.”

“Excuse me?”

“You told me that you would kill a man to make sure your daughter eats. This is your opportunity. If you whack him, you will have your formal initiation. You will get out of the ghetto, and you can raise your daughter in a safe environment with the money you earn.” Lafayette’s flip-flopping is bothering him. Still, he can’t say no to a contract. It’s in the rules, lest _he_ wants to get killed. He swallows the lump forming in his throat, and he can hear his heart pounding in his ears. Goddamn it.

Hamilton is truly his only friend, he muses during the car ride home. He clearly has no friends in the Syndicate. He has his daughter, which is about it, and he needs to keep her alive and healthy and happy. He glances at her in the rearview, comfortably asleep in her car seat. Guilt and shame overcome him when he realizes he’ll literally have to kill Hamilton, in order to keep his little girl safe.

He has to pull over to throw up.

* * *

 

Whitney Huston is always Hamilton’s choice to sing in the shower, so today, he has done a Whitney tribute in the scalding hot water, at the top of his lungs for half an hour. He’s still singing loudly and passionately when he gets out, feeling refreshed and satisfied. Rejuvenated, like he can fucking do anything. Maybe he can go out with George, after all. But his good health usually wavers quickly, and he decides against pushing his luck—he’d done it yesterday, and look where it’s gotten him today. The last time he’d spent over 15 consecutive hours sleeping was—well, when he’d fallen asleep in his mother’s arms that night. He freezes in his tracks. Speaking of which, her death anniversary is coming up.

He gives himself a dosage of ibuprofen, gets dressed (boxers, fluffy socks, and a sweatshirt), and grabs his phone to head to the kitchen.

While he was in the shower, he’d gotten a message.

 

 **George  
** _Saturday night I have a charity gala in Brooklyn. How’s Friday?_

Tomorrow’s Friday. He shrugs and texts back, _Friday’s fine. Gimme a time and a place & I’ll be wherever_

He makes himself a sandwich, only because his stomach is probably weak, and waits for his tea to brew while he checks his email. He hasn’t gotten anything from Robespierre regarding… well, anything, really. At work, yesterday afternoon, Hercules emailed him a copy of some book report he’s turning in next week. Wanted Hamilton to proof it for him. He sighs, wonders if he could do it to break the ice between the two of them.

There’s a few spam emails, some emails to some subscriptions to health websites and book coupons. He groans at his migraine, shuts his laptop, and turns on the news, but mutes it. He lets his teabag sit as he reads the headlines, “3 BODIES FOUND DUMPED IN PORT OF NEW YORK.” He stares at the images of the recovered bodies, rotted, but somewhat preserved. His first instinct is to call Hercules, scream at him about how big the case is going to be but—well, it isn’t like he can play off what happened between them. He unmutes the news, and sips his bitter tea as his phone buzzes again with another text from George.

* * *

 

The next morning is a slow one. Hamilton takes a cab to work because he doesn’t feel like driving, and when he arrives, Hercules is at his desk, buried in paperwork. Hamilton walks past him, doesn’t say a word, but it goes unnoticed anyway, because Hercules doesn’t even know he’s there. With that, something sinks in his stomach, knowing he has probably jeopardized his only friendship. But there’s no time for sulking. The precinct is hectic; adrenaline is practically being pumped through the air as officers and detectives and secretaries rush around. The bodies discovered have not been identified yet, and the public is becoming impatient. The excess pressure is even being seeped into those officers who are not on the case. Those who are on the case don’t even know where to start. First, the former commissioner is found slaughtered, and now unidentified bodies have washed up on the Port of New York? The New York State Legislature will have some explaining to do, certainly. In the meantime, Commissioner Robespierre calls a meeting for specific detectives to identify the cases, and lay the ground rules for the game plan. Hamilton is pleased to see he’s made the list.

“Ladies, gentlemen. Listen up. We have two massive, unsolved murder cases on our hands, which are getting bigger and bigger in the United States as we speak. That’s unhealthy. The first case concerns Mr. Louis Capet, the former commissioner. In case you’ve forgotten, he was abducted from his apartment home on January 8th, tortured for three days, and killed execution-style. He was beheaded.” The room is eerily silent. No one speaks, no one breathes, no one looks around. Robespierre continues.

“His body was dumped behind St. Anne’s Cathedral, on Mercer Street. We’ve been searching for DNA samples on him, and traces for where he’d been _before_ he was dumped, but he’s clean, and there’s no way to tell where he’d been, prior. We have no leads. We have a few ideas, but this case has been open for a week now. We need to close it.” To punctuate this, he flips the case file closed. He moves to the next folder; the new one.

“Next case: Port of New York. I’ll brief you, once again. I’d like to state for the record that two cargo loaders found an arm floating by the harbor, and ended up pulling up an entire body. Young woman. About 16 years old. That was last night, at about 5pm. Since then, the body count has jumped to twelve. We’re thinking it’s a serial killer’s dump site, but—well, there are all kinds of people down there. Different ages, races. Men and women. Nothing that really screams ‘serial murder’ but… anyway, the cause of death appears to be gunshot wounds or drowning. The detectives assigned to this case will receive the case file in their mailbox at noon, and their tasks will be posted on the bulletin.”

There’s a few murmurs, dispersed sighs, before Robespierre interrupts with, “Oh. And due to the state of panic the NYPD has been left with, we’ve done some rearrangements, and have switched up the partners. It’s nothing personal, just until we solve these cases. We have a lot of good officers and detectives and we need you all spaced evenly so that your talent and all that is working within every aspect of this precinct. Working on the Capet case, your new partners will be posted in Block 2. On the New York Port, you’ll be posted in Block 4.”

The meeting is dismissed with a recap of Robespierre’s expectations and a slight sentimental reminder of the precinct’s determination of police force and detective squad. Hamilton ignores it, wondering if Robespierre has placed him on Capet’s case. In fact, he’s praying that he did. He’s also hoping Hercules is still his partner—he should apologize. God, he should really work on blowing up like that. He doesn’t even remember what they were fighting about. Among the flitting officers and detectives from the Situation Room, Hamilton is driven with the crowd to the bulletin, but he’s still looking for Hercules.

“Detective Hamilton!” It’s a silky smooth voice that distracts him, and he glances over his shoulder, sees an unfamiliar gentleman with straight white teeth smiling back at him. His haircut is clean and his eyes have no sparkle in them, but he looks very warm and welcoming, nonetheless. “I’m Detective Aaron Burr. I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. I’ll be working with you on the new case.”

“Alexander Hamilton.” Okay, that’s one let down. “Which case?”

“The Port.”

His shoulders slump, but he shakes the offered hand with a firm grip of his own. Burr nearly crushes his hand. Hamilton continues, “No, I don’t think we’ve met.”

Burr’s smile is odd, this time like he’s gauging Hamilton with a stress indicator. “Are you disappointed with switching partners?”

“A little. Mulligan’s been my partner since we’ve been on the police force.” He crosses his arms with a cagey laugh. “I’m sure you’re just as good.”

“Youngest police officer to graduate to detective,” he flashes his badge like it’s a medal with a smile both graceful and somewhat arrogant. “I make an effort to stay humble.”

Hamilton mutters a disinterred, “Do you?” but Burr doesn’t seem to take the hint. He’s still searching for Hercules, and finds him talking to whom Hamilton assumes is his new partner. He decides not to bother them, and leaves with Burr, who is directing him to bulletin.

“So,” Burr begins, “Is there anything you’d like for me to know about you before we become partners?”

“We’re already partners.”

“Yes, but I have a checklist of criteria that I need you to meet. I can only work with the best. But not better than me. You can’t outshine a star.”

“Right.” It’s curt. Bland.

“How long have you been a detective?” He poses the question like it’s an interview.

Hamilton’s headache is coming back. “Seven months.”

“Wow. Only seven months and they put you on a case this big?” He says it out of the side of his mouth, and scribbles something down in a notepad Hamilton hadn’t realized he had. “Okay, next, do you have a healthy relationship with your parents?”

Bewildered, Hamilton glances at the presumptuous prick. “What does this have to do with anything?” He really doesn’t feel like pouring his heart out to this guy, whom he just met, not even twenty minutes ago. His dead mother and probably-dead, absent father are none of Burr’s beeswax.

“Can’t….answer….question,” he mumbles aloud as he scribbles it down decisively. He looks up, and upon seeing Hamilton’s scowl, he adds, “I need to know how well you get along with authority figures. Next question: how old were you when you lost your vir—”

“No! Stop!” Hamilton whispers harshly, moving to stand in front of him. “No. I am _not_ telling you that. Listen, we’re partners. Equals. And we’re stuck together until we close this fucking case together, understand? I will not be _patronized_ by you and your stupid handy-dandy notebook, alright? So just shut the fuck up, and let’s do this.”

Burr’s brows furrow, but if he has anything to say, Hamilton wouldn’t know it. His mouth remains shut until they reach the bulletin. He doesn’t try to play off what just happened, but he doesn’t react too badly. Hamilton busies himself in searching for their task—which would be to pick up the autopsies and deliver them to the front desk. That’s all.

“They gave us a dry one,” Burr mutters, tucking his badge away in his trousers. Hamilton can hear the accusing tone in the man’s voice, and for a second, he feels guilt. Of course Robespierre wouldn’t give Burr anything good if he was paired with the buck wild newbie. And perhaps Hamilton owes him an apology. But he would die before swallowing his pride for this asshole.

He coughs, in response. “Alright. Well, when do we pick them up?”

Burr sighs, disappointment obvious in his tone, but he looks like he’s at least trying to be polite. “Whenever they call them in. I’ll be upstairs. Want to do lunch today?”

“I’m scheduled for that huge paper dump thing during lunch,” Hamilton lies, gesturing to a stack of papers on the front desk. He doesn’t know if he’s convincing enough, because Burr kind of side-eyes him, so he adds, “I’m a rookie. I do office paperwork when Robespierre wants to keep me busy.”

With a smile that Hamilton can’t tell apart from a really good fake one or just a really terrible real one, Burr says, “Your call. I left my contact information on your desk, should you need me. I’m not available on weekends, but I do check my email frequently. So, you can reach me there. Good luck.”

He feels like an asshole when he gets to his desk and sees Burr has even left him a small care package, with a note saying, “ _Heard you were sick yesterday! My grandfather always made this soup for me when I wasn’t feeling well. Hope you’re back on your feet soon! I can’t wait to work with you :)_ ” Yea. He definitely feels like an asshole now. So, when lunch break rolls around, Hamilton finds himself upstairs at Burr’s office pen, shyly accepting the previous lunch request.

“No huge paper dump thing during lunch?” Burr asks teasingly, clicking his pen.

“I—no. Look, do you want to go or not?” Hamilton avoids the eyes of some of the curious detectives in Burr’s pen.

“Yea. Just let me get my jacket.”

Hamilton convinces him to have lunch at the bar Lafayette works at—this dainty little joint called _Bearfoot_. However, his old pal isn’t behind the counter, the other guy is, Samuel Adams.

“Hello, Alex!” he grins, tossing a few beer bottles. His eyes fall on Burr, and his smile brightens. “New patron?”

“Lunch hour,” he says conversationally, follows Hamilton to the bar counter to sit.

“Sam. Nice to meet you,” he shakes hands with Burr as he flips the hand towel onto his shoulder.

“Aaron. It’s a pleasure.”

“So, enough with all this small talk, ladies. I want a club sandwich and a sprite,” Hamilton orders, tapping his fingertips on the counter. “We got thirty minutes for lunch, let’s not waste ‘em,”

* * *

 

The day has flowed relatively smoothly. Burr doesn’t bother him too much, and he avoids any awkward encounters with Hercules. Once Hamilton is home, he showers and prepares for his date with George, which is the conventional dinner, but George had offered to cook for him, in the privacy of his home. He didn’t get a creepy vibe from him like he probably would have, if George were creepy. And, additionally, he thinks it’s kind of sweet. But Hamilton doesn’t fuck on the first date. He thinks back to all his other first dates while he showers.

Okay, so actually he does.

But he doesn’t have low standards, so that’s cool, he thinks.

He tries not to feel like a total slut, especially considering the fact that he never saw the people again after that. But he likes the feeling George gives him. Light flitting in his stomach and heart when his name pops up on his phone screen with his message underneath it. He’d like to have that for as long as possible. He’d like to not mess it up by chasing dick everywhere.

He drives to the address George has sent him, and isn’t surprised to see that his apartment is more of a pent house, on the nicer side of town. He can see the pool in the back, and his heart stumbles when he sees the cars lined up in the driveway. This man is loaded. Immediately, he’s skeptical, and is rethinking his entire decision, being at this house. But before he has the chance to escape, the front door opens, and George’s strong, solid figure is standing there, grinning.

He takes a deep breath, takes the key out of the ignition, and prepares to exit the car. He stops, checks his teeth, his hair, and pushes the car door open as George holds the front door open, in a sweater and dark jeans.

“Hey,” he smiles. “You look great, Alex.”

“Thank you,” he glances at the sweater George is in, and chuckles. “Your dad sweater is pretty hot.”

“You don’t like it?” George chuckles, closing the door behind them as he gestures to the living room to take Hamilton’s coat.

“No, I love it,” Hamilton says, absently, staring up and around the house, allowing George to slip his coat off and hang it wherever. The windows are huge, facing the ocean. The sky is a handsome navy blue, puffy white with clouds.

“Perfect. Dinner’s on.” He leads Hamilton through the pent proudly, showing him various pieces of art, which Hamilton shows a great deal of interest in. They pass the time, chatting idly, picking up where they left off on Wednesday.

“Where do you work?” Hamilton asks over perfectly cooked pasta, the most cliché of the dinner dates. He feels like he’s in some cheesy rom-com, the way George’s smile lights up, and the butterflies in his stomach flutter to his heart when George touches his hand. They talk about where they went to college, or jobs they’ve had in the past. George apparently wanted to be an airplane pilot when he was a child.

“What changed your mind, assuming you aren’t an airplane pilot?” Hamilton chuckles, buzzed off his wine.

“Nothing. I ended up inheriting the… family business, you could say,” George shrugs. “I still wanted to be a pilot, even in college.”

“Family business?” Hamilton asks.

“I’m the CEO,” he says, eyes dropping to his pasta. “How’s yours?” He gestures with his fork to Hamilton’s plate.

“It’s delicious,” he replies, shaking his hair off of his neck, watching how the tense look on George’s face is eased, replaced with something more seductive. His eyebrows drop with his voice.

He purrs, “So, what do you do?”

“I’m a detective,” Hamilton answers. There’s no way to make that sound sexy, but he pairs it with a little eyebrow raise.

George practically chokes on his wine.

Hamilton stares at the coughing fit in confusion. “Are you alright?”

The latter regains his composure, eyeballing Hamilton oddly. “You’re a detective?” He asks, voice rasped.

“I am,” Hamilton says proudly.

“Most detectives I’ve seen are at least thirty,” George says simply, watching Hamilton sip his wine.

Something about the coughing fit was endearing to Hamilton; the reaction to his eyebrow action was simply priceless. “I’m still a rookie. One of the youngest men to earn the detective badge,” he says. “The new commissioner doesn’t trust me with big cases yet, but he assigned me to the Port of New York case.”

“Oh, yea,” George says, helping himself to more salad. “I heard about that. Those eight bodies washed up on the harbor, right?”

“It’s fifteen now,” Hamilton says awkwardly. “The number jumped overnight. And then three more were discovered today.”

“Dear god,” George says faintly. “Any leads?”

“Not quite. I’m not even on the investigation. My partner and I are on delivery duty.” He swivels his fork in the spaghetti and sighs. “You know he thinks I’m no good? He’s one of the best in the force, _apparently_. Got stuck with me, and because of me, we’re delivery boys.”

George laughs. “Don’t look so down. As a boss, I can tell you that we make decisions like this all the time. Your partner’s experience could rub off on you. Maybe that’s what your boss was hoping for. And it really doesn’t mean you’re no good. Maybe you’re excellent, but you need some guidance, that’s all.”

“I didn’t even want to be on the Port case, to begin with,” Hamilton whines. “The other option was the Capet case.”

“That’s where you wanted to be?” George asks.

“More than anything. The commissioner and I were close friends. I’m investigating his murder.”

George goes back to his wine. “Can he switch you?”

“I doubt he would,” Hamilton mutters. “Robespierre hates me.”

There’s a shrug, and he can tell George is about to give him some advice from a “boss’ perspective” or whatever, but he stops and smiles. “Are you sure it’s not just you hating him, Alex?”

“It’s mutual. Look, let’s stop talking about work, you know? Stressful enough as it is. Tell me about—your favorite movie, I don’t know.”

“Space Jam is pretty good.”

“Are you kidding?” Hamilton nearly chokes on his pasta, laughing so hard. “That movie was the single worst movie in history.”

“What do you have against live-action-animated sports comedies?” George laughs, over his own pasta, and he loves the way Hamilton flushes a shade of pink when he laughs, or covers his face. He likes the way his doe eyes sparkle in the dim light, loves the way he keeps shaking his hair off of his shoulders. He likes his laugh, too. And when they do the dishes together, he loves the way Hamilton sings along to _So Emotional_ by Whitney Huston, dancing around the kitchen, swaying his hips to the beat. It’s kind of cheesy, but George takes care of the dishes while Hamilton dances around, hopping onto countertops, singing into a grill brush, seeming to have forgotten about the task at hand. He’s taken his shoes off, strutting around in fuzzy socks, singing passionately at George, but is slightly taken aback when the man joins in the chorus with him, golden voice blending with Hamilton’s taking his hand and dancing with him through the living room.

By the end of the song, Hamilton’s lips have found George’s and they kiss for a moment. But the song ends, and some loud ass commercial about a burger at a fast food restaurant blaring from the speakers makes Hamilton jump, and George decides to turn Pandora off. But Hamilton’s still sitting on the couch behind him, watching him with those drunk eyes, and he finds himself over in an instant, kissing him again, but with more passion, hands roaming and gripping. George can taste the wine on Hamilton’s soft lips, groans when Hamilton grinds up into him, wrapping his legs around George’s waist. He moves to suck bites and kisses into Hamilton’s neck, loving the way he says his name so breathlessly.

His own breath hitches when Hamilton’s cool hands roam under his sweater, and he responds with the roll of his own hips. Hamilton’s moan catches him off guard, and he kisses him again; his scent is fucking intoxicating. He feels nails raking down his back, and Hamilton’s eyes fly open. He stares at George for a moment, and his senses come back to him.

“Is something wrong?” George asks, sitting back. He looks hazed, but concerned.

Hamilton watches George for a second, and he decides that he can’t lose this man to being too forward, or moving too quickly, like he has in the past. Self-control isn’t his strong suit. He has a bad habit of getting into situations because he can’t control himself, but he’s working on it. He doesn’t want George to be just another one night stand. He tries to ignore the erection forming in his jeans, and smiles oddly. “No. But we should wait.”

George’s own grin is enough to soothe him. “What, until we’re married?” It’s a joke, but Hamilton would like for it to last a while.

“Let’s finish cleaning up. We can watch Space Jam, if you have it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] quoi de neuf, “What’s up?”  
> [2] Quoi? he’s like “what man what do u want im trying to smash????”  
> [3] Mais, non, basically he’s saying “that’s not all”  
> [4] tête de chou literally translates to “head of cabbage.” French speakers generally use the word “chou” (cabbage) as a term of endearment. Since the godfather of the Syndicate is dear to him, but also the leader, a drunk Lafayette uses a pun to communicate that, but Herc doesn’t speak French and I’m assuming neither do you :(  
> [5] il est de votre tête sur un baton if he’s unable to support his family in France bc of Herc’s inability to carry out a plan, he’s gonna chop his head off and put it on a stick  
> [6] Hercule No, not a typo. It’s the French form of Hercules. Pronounced roughly as “ur-KYOOL”
> 
>  
> 
> I'm really sorry this update took so long. :( I haven't been home since 28 June, so I'm trying to get in my writing when I can. I'm planning to update the last two chapters of MVNB at the same time, and I'm planning a 4th of July special for P/C. (◡‿◡✿)


	5. One Twos

Washington is a simple man. He likes his coffee black, and he likes his floors clean. It gets a bit difficult to clean blood off the floors every evening, though. He doesn’t like to put too much stress on his maid, Rosita. She has a bad back. He does it himself, most of the time. And usually, it’s in the same area—if it stains, he doesn’t want it everywhere. That would raise suspicion.

Washington prefers to keep a low profile.

He isn’t even a crazy serial killer, or anything, but as a mob boss, he has his responsibilities. More often than not, his soldiers will catch someone nosing around in the Syndicate, and they find out more than they should. He doesn’t go out looking for people to kill. But he does what he needs to do.

Alex has gone home by 12am, content, and mesmerized. Wonderful. Washington sits by the open window with his glass of bourbon, thinking about him, mulling over the nonchalance of the boy’s disposition when he said, “I’m a detective.” Surely, if he were undercover, or suspecting Washington were in the Syndicate, he wouldn’t have said it. He wouldn’t have revealed so much. He wouldn’t have kissed him. So, he’s safe, he thinks. For now.

Alex didn’t have a weapon. When Washington took his coat, he checked. Doesn’t hurt to check. Alex didn’t have a wire. He’d felt him when they were on the couch. He’d felt a lot of him on that couch. His gaze drifts back over to the sofa that they kissed on, grinded on, watch movies on, and cuddled on. Fucking on a sofa wouldn’t be very romantic. He’s distracted for another beat by the way Alex wrapped his legs around his waist, grinded up into Washington—and his dick stirs.

No.

Not right now. He checks watch. Maybe later.

Anyway, he _is_ safe. He figures it’s only a matter of time before Alex finds out, and he has to be prepared for that. Because that won’t be for some time.

But he won’t find out. Because Washington isn’t going to tell him. Because ordinary people don’t know, and he’s kept this a secret all his life. No reason he can’t do the same with Alex.

Except, Alex is no “ordinary person.” That mind of his could cut diamonds. He wonders if he should just say he doesn’t want to see him anymore. He should move. He should get married. Say it was a mistake. Tell him he doesn’t remember him. Act like he’s his own twin. Pretend he’s gone blind.

No.

Gentlemen don’t do that.

Gentlemen are straightforward.

He should call him back, tell him it’s over. No more dates. Forget his address. No explanation. Text him, “Don’t sing to me anymore.” Text him, “I’m a mob boss.” The options are endless.

He can’t ruin Alex’s life, and he _certainly_ can’t let Alex ruin his. He’ll let the kid ruin his own life. He seems perfectly capable of doing so.

Washington looks back to the fluffy blankets on the couch that Alex had snuggled in to watch the movies he’d picked. Washington had just sat with him, playing in his hair. He’s not into musicals, but Alex knew the whole thing by heart. He smelled like wine and mangos and Washington could taste the cherry chapstick on his lips, and he could feel his heart pounding when he sucked a hickey into the kid’s neck. 

Fuck, he’s attached already. This is not good.

He thinks back to the bar they met at. John’s bar. He fought Phil, flirted with the Schuylers, and tipped the bartender. And then he complimented the music. Charming kid. He sips his bourbon, intensely staring at the horizon, the way the lights blink if he stares for too long. Detectives don’t just go to bars run by capos in the Syndicate. It wasn’t even his side of town, which means he went out of his way to be there, which means he was looking for something. Or someone. John probably.

He sighs. Maybe Alex is on to him. Or maybe Alex doesn’t even know who Washington really is. He’s hard to read, which makes him a good actor. Washington just hopes he isn’t acting. 

He decides to sleep on the decision. No doubt, he really likes Alex.

He just hates the law enforcement.

* * *

 

“Do you ever answer your phone?” Burr demands as Hamilton waltzes into work the next morning, refreshed and upbeat. “I called you four times last night. You never picked up.”

“I was on a date.” He doesn’t sound annoyed as he unpacks his briefcase, Burr following him to his desk, holding a stack of papers tightly to his chest.

“I’m sure she could have waited, Hamilton.”

“Actually, _he_ was probably more important than anything you could have had to say, Burr. I turned my phone off. We watched _Footloose_.”

Burr doesn’t seem bothered by Hamilton’s inclinations, he only slams the papers down on the desk. “The autopsies came in last night. I picked them up at 10. _Alone_. Some partner you are.”

“You could have texted me,” Hamilton replies dryly, picking up the first folder.

“The coroner ruled their deaths a homicide.”

“I could’ve told you that just by watching the news.” However, there’s something very wrong. Something he doesn’t want to hear, because he knows it in his gut, but he can’t exactly place it. He doesn’t know what that sudden guilt is, either.

“She confirmed the first body found, and two others.” Burr slides him the mugshots of each of them.

Hamilton studies each of their faces, but can’t find anything that suggests something in his gut to be true. Other than their having mugshots. “They’re in the system? Okay, so they’re criminals. So what?” The sixteen year old girl was in for armed robbery. Good god.

“The last two guys,” Burr continues, gesturing to the two mugshots of the two grown men. “Are in the Jeffersons. Confirmed. They have the tattoos and everything. They’re on record as affiliated members.”

“Is she?” His eyes drop to her pale, dry lips and messy hair.

“We’re willing to bet that she’s an associate, if there’s a pattern.”

“So, what, we found a dumpsite?” Hamilton asks, looking back at the mugshots. “For the Jeffersons?”

“I think we found a mass grave. And who knows how old some of these bodies are, Hamilton? From my understanding, the Jeffersons and the Syndicate have been around since—since this country was formed.” He lowers his voice, leans in. “Apparently, two of the most powerful families in the country melded their fortunes to have a net, or a monopoly of some sort to influence the country.”

“How do you know this?” Hamilton’s a bit skeptical, but he appreciates the information.

“Last night, after I found out, I did a bit of research. Anyway, the pact was called the Washington-Jefferson Association, and they ran big-time corporations and basically had the government on their payroll. This lasted for centuries. But then, there was a huge fight in the 20’s after the First World War, and the US’s involvement. The Washingtons thought it better to stay out of foreign affairs. The US lost a lot of money and a lot of people. The Jefferson Family thought it was better to be an ally and to have allies on the other side of the globe. It blew up because they couldn’t come to an agreement and when they finally split, the banks failed. The government was unstable, because it was being pulled apart. Half the government went with the Jeffersons, the other half went with the Washingtons. The economy was in ruins, and America was in shambles.”

“Wait a minute,” Hamilton frowns. “Did you just tell me that a secret society caused the Great Depression?”

Burr nods solemnly. “But not just the American one. It was a ripple in the pond. The 30’s was bad for everyone. Even the massive influx in Germany’s economy was a result of the American cooperate boards failing in the international trade. It affected everybody.”

He sits down. “You sound like a crazy conspirator, Burr.” He tries to laugh it off, but it’s proving difficult when it all starts to make sense. He becomes upset. “That’s ridiculous. The stock market crash caused the Depression.”

“That’s what the government told the people. That’s what they put in the papers, and the textbooks. If you were the president, would you want the people to know you were just a puppet for two guys in suits, sitting on a throne?” He narrows his eyes. “The Washington Syndicate is bad news. The Jeffersons are worse. Those bodies we found are just the tip of the iceberg.”

“Think we’ll find more?” He shouldn’t even have to ask. With one more look at the girl, his stomach lurches, and he feels nauseous. “Nevermind. If you’re right, and the government is being run by the mafia, why are we hunting them?”

“The 70’s was a rough time for the Jeffersons, the Syndicate, and the Government.” Burr hands him the rest of the papers, which are really just newspaper headlines and articles he printed out. “It was no longer a single professional organization running the country. They devolved into two rival gangs, fighting for power, and while one was in control, the other was plotting against it. It became sloppy, bloody, and loud. The bosses feared it was getting _too_ loud. Wasn’t going to be much of a secret anymore if they didn’t gain control right away. During the war on drugs in the cartel in Columbia, in the 70’s, the Jeffersons got their hands into some of the mixing pots, and the Syndicate,” he flips to an article. “Saw an opportunity to make money. The US Government was pissed, and eventually decided to fight morally, instead of politically,”

Hamilton begins to skim the papers, and he quizzically looks back up to Burr. “This is all a little farfetched.”

“You say that, but I can see the gears churning in your head,” Burr says with a smile of his own.

And as much as Hamilton hates that teasing tone in the man’s voice, he’s actually right. All of it makes sense in Hamilton’s mind. He’ll give Burr the benefit of the doubt this time, crosses his arms. “Alright. Let’s say you’re right. Where do we go from there?”

Burr stares at Hamilton for a moment, then his shoulders slump. “I don’t know. You know, the body count has doubled?”

“New York has some explaining to do.” Hamilton’s eyes drop to the ground and he feels his stomach sink. How can Burr speak so casually? “Thirty bodies off the coast is a little extreme.”

“This is my hypothesis: if it turns out there are bodies that have been there for years longer than others, then we’ve got a lead.” He leans on Hamilton’s desk casually. “Unless water currents carried other bodies away. We’ll have them washing up on beaches all down the East Coast.”

The precinct is packed with people clutching photos of missing friends and relatives. They’re mourning, pleading, shuffling around begging officers to let them see their dead daughters, rambling about their missing son’s grades, or their missing friend’s drinking habits, in hopes that it could shed some light on the situation. Hamilton is put on crowd control, even though he’s a detective, and spots Hercules in the crowd. While the rest of the officers are controlling the crowd, Hamilton seeks out Hercules, tapping him on the shoulder.

“Alex?”

“Long time no see.” His smile is awkward. Hercules looks different. He looks exhausted. He has a black eye and a few bruises. “What happened to your face?”

“I came between a woman’s heroin and her detox.” He doesn’t elaborate.

“Sorry I slapped you.” He can barely hear himself over the roar of the crowd when they spot Robespierre, overlooking the desperate citizens, clutching pictures of their missing loved ones. He’s assuming Hercules hasn’t heard him, either, and his frown tightens. The crowd begins to move toward Robespierre, clamoring past the officers and up to the desks. It’s a scene Hamilton doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to forget. He watches in horror, pressed against the wall as a riot breaks loose, the citizens desperately trying to reach the Commissioner, who is just as shocked as Hamilton is to see the stampede of forlorn friends and families, shouting and pleading.

* * *

 

“Still have that charity gala?” Alex asks, on the other end of the phone. Washington, in his robe, plops down on his bed, releases a sigh. The sun is going down, and he isn’t even dressed yet.

“That I do, little one.” He stares up at the ceiling, listening to the rustling around on the other end. Alex’s grumble in response sounds disappointed, so he changes the topic and asks, “How was work?”

“Stressful,” he mumbles. “Uh, when can I see you again?”

Washington considers this for a moment, and then says, “Whenever you’d like. I won’t be back until Sunday morning, though.”

“How about we have lunch on Sunday?” Then, shortly, he adds, “Nevermind. I’m ready whenever you are.”

“I’d like that.” Washington would like to see Alex again, very much. He sits up, walks over to his radio, droning Frank Sinatra, and gently spins the dial to increase the volume slightly. “Do you like Sinatra, Alex?”

“What, like Pack Rats?”

“It’s _Rat Pack_ , love. And yes. Have you heard his music?”

Alex giggles, shifts. “Geez, how old are you?”

Instead of answering the question, Washington begins to sing slowly, richly, along with Sinatra, “ _I’m so afraid of night, ‘cuz I’m too romantic… moonlight and stars can make such a fool of me_ ,” enjoying the verbal chills he gives Alex when he hears his voice. “One of my favorites.”

“You’ll have to sing it in its entirety for me one day,” Alex replies, to which Washington checks the time. Oh shit. He needs to be on his way out of the door soon. “Do you like Whitney Huston?”

Washington, picking a black suit from his closet, begins to pull his shirt on, buttoning it up in the mirror as he answers, “I do. I’ve liked her a lot more since last night.”

“You liked that little episode I did, for you?” the boy chuckles. “You could say I’m a fan of _Glee_.”

“Glee? What, that’s what the kids are saying now?” Absently, he pulls the rest of his suit on, straightening his tie, as Alex continues to ramble on the other end about the gay couple and the lead character and their voices and how unrealistic it is, but how he’s always loved how cute they all were.

“I wanted to audition for Rachel Berry’s part, in college. Or maybe Mike’s dancing and all that. He didn’t really sing, though. And you’d make a swell Finn Hudson.” He sighs, mumbling something, and continues, “God rest his soul.”

“Alex?”

“He was such a lovely person, you know?” The other’s voice is breaking, and he hears him sniffle. “He didn’t deserve the ending that he got. So sudden.”

“Alexander, I’m leaving soon.”

“He just brought everyone _together_ , George, he was so precious!” He’s moved to tears at this point, and Washington gives him his moment as he grabs his coat and his briefcase, tromping down the stairs, still holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder, which is starting to ache now.

“I’m so sorry for your… _loss_ , Alex. But I’m leaving right now. And I can’t talk on the phone and drive at the same time.” He adjusts his cufflinks, checks himself in the mirror. With another squint, he licks his pinky and smooths it over both his eyebrows. He smiles at the result.

“The law is no texting and driving,” Alex doesn’t sound impressed.

“The _law_ is mobile distraction, Alex.”

“Cars are mobile,”

“Charming,” Washington croons, sliding his watch onto his wrist, snapping it into place. “You should be a lawyer.”

“That was my first choice. But we don’t get guns when we’re lawyers.” He shifts again. “Why don’t you take a cab, or the subway?”

“Privacy. I like the quiet. Smoother ride. Cheaper, in some ways.” He paces into his kitchen, grabs an apple and spins on his heel, scanning the dining room, in case he’s forgotten anything. “Detectives get guns?”

“Field work!” He sounds proud. “I was pretty impressed, too, you know. A few times, I almost lost my privilege to mine. But we’re not gonna talk about that,”

“Wonderful,” Washington responds warmly. “Listen, I gotta go.”

“I know, I know. My regards to Brooklyn,” he declares, and says his goodbyes.

When Washington hangs up, he’s out of the door, less than a second later, slipping his phone into his coat pocket, slinging his briefcase over his shoulder, bidding Rosita goodbye. When he pops into his car, he takes a large bite of the apple, and shudders as he turns the heat on. He’s freezing. He takes a moment to settle before he starts driving. It’s going to be a long ride.

He hates to discipline his capos, but duty calls.

* * *

 

In Brooklyn, he meets up with his lifelong best friend, and Underboss, Nathanael Greene, whom is taller than Washington, but slimmer, and with stormy gray eyes and rich, black skin. He doesn’t smile very often, and his head is shiny under the florescent lighting.   

Washington walks into Soho Hotel, swinging his coat off his shoulders and snatching the gloves off of his fingers as his heavy shoes click on the tile floors. He walks briskly to the elevator, nodding politely to the concierge and doorman, handing his suitcase to Greene and muttering,

“Lafayette knows damn well what our policies are.”

When they arrive on the basement level floor, he steps out, with Greene behind him, and takes the room key from behind the potted plant at the end of the hallway. He slides it in the door handle scanner, and pushes the heavy metal door open, and is met with a pair of large brown eyes in the dark.

“ _Monsieur_ ,” he greets awkwardly. “Did we not have to meet in a meatlocker?”

Unsure of how to answer the question with the “not” thrown in there, Washington ignores him and menacingly approaches Lafayette while Greene mans the door.

“It’s not a meatlocker,” is all he says. His eyes drop to the neon orange cast on Lafayette’s left wrist. “What happened here?”

Hesitantly, Lafayette shifts, and looks at it, too. “I broke it when I was running, _monsieur_. I fell.”

“Running?” Washington asks. There’s an air of condescendence in his voice, and Lafayette looks away. “From whom?”

“From the warehouse. During the bust.”

Ah, yes. Washington takes a deep breath, and looks back over his shoulder at Greene. That drug bust took half a million out of the Syndicate’s funds, which Washington will end up having to either pay out of pocket, or double the cost of their next shipment. It’s not like he can buy his product in bulk and get a discount for four tons. He frowns.

“It’s a shame what happened to Commissioner Capet.”

“That is what I wanted to talk to you about, _monsieur_.” Lafayette’s voice has reached a falsetto unmatched by any of the tones Washington has heard him use before. “I have been trying to protect you for some time, from a detective that is after you on the case.”

Washington frowns. “Me? He thinks the Syndicate is behind the murder?”

“Is it not probable cause?” Lafayette inquires, furrowing his thinly arched brows. “I have had my army hunting him since the day the theory formed.”

“And why isn’t he dead yet?” Washington demands. If this detective finds remotely _anything_ that can connect the Syndicate to the murder of Capet, they’re through. Be it a coincidence, or a witness that says one of the soldiers matches a description, or a hair found at the cathedral from one innocent Sunday where a capo went to confession. Washington could end up dead for this. Even though Washington didn’t give an order to kill Capet. He looks back at Greene again, who only shrugs.

“He has ties, _monsieur._ We need more time.”

“In three days, the Commission will hold a meeting, Marquis. If they find out that a detective is hunting me for a murder of a police commissioner, they’re going to put a bullet in my skull before I walk out of that building. And if that happens, I will make _sure_ you never make it home to France, understand me?” His voice has reached a guttural growl. “I want you to find that detective and bring him to me.”

“Dead or alive, sir?”

After short thought, he mumbles, “Alive. I want to see what he knows.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that MVNB is complete, I will have more time& energy to update Smoke Break more frequently! I appreciate your patience, and as usual, your comments! I read every single one and I make sure to reply as quickly as I can. They inspire me to write more, when I hear peoples' thoughts and ideas on my writings <3
> 
> PSA:  
> from this point on, be warned. All there is, is plot twists, gay sex, violence, and suffering. 
> 
> I love you all & remember to be kind.


	6. Father, Stretch My Hands, Pt. 1

Hamilton’s perpetuated grief of Cory Monteith quickly ends when his screen flashes with **_A. Burr :/_** indicating that his partner is calling. Since this afternoon, Hamilton been dying to hear from Burr, despite his annoyance when he does talk to him. Something about their discussion this afternoon makes Hamilton antsy, and writhing with anticipation. Besides, it’s only between the two of them. Even though he can’t really keep secrets, he loves them.

“Hamilton?” Burr sounds like he’s outside, with wind whipping through the speakers.

“Speaking,” he hums, muting the television, walking to his window, and taking in his grand view of the parking lot and dumpsters, several floors up. He frowns. He likes George’s view more. Then again, he likes the view of George, more, but his thoughts are distracted when Burr goes,

“I need you to investigate the Syndicate.”

Hamilton grins. “And you’re doing the Jeffersons?”

“I am. I need you to find their warehouse. Can you be discreet?” He sounds like he normally does. Cool, calm, collected. Hamilton is practically bouncing on his toes.

“Yes! Yes, I can be discreet. Of course I can. Discreet, discreet, discreet. My middle name is _discreet_ ,” he stops because now it sounds weird.

“Do you know what that means?” Burr sounds annoyed.

He doesn’t know whether to be offended or confused, so he doesn’t answer, and Burr goes,

“It means tell _nobody._ Not your best friend, not your boyfriend. Not your priest, not your dog. Nobody. Understand?”

“Understood. What am I investigating?” He sees an opportunity to find out who the boss is, through Laurens—the only capo he knows.

“Their system. Who their associates are. Which joints they own, and who they target.”

“You want me to infiltrate?” His voice is lower, and he feels lightheaded with excitement. The last detective to successfully infiltrate the mafia was Donnie Brasco. He shudders.

“No. Don’t get involved,” Burr snaps. “Just observe and _investigate_.”

“Gotcha. And you’re doing the same thing for the Jeffersons?” Hamilton asks, watching a few black cars drive onto the curb in front of his complex.

“I am,” he replies evenly. “I found something that might link them to Capet’s death.”

He freezes, upon hearing the news, and seeing that another black car has pulled up on the side of the street. There are now four of them, and the back of his mind is telling him that it is not good news. He moves to turn off all the lights in his apartment, including the TV, and ducks, peeking up over the window sill. No one has gotten out of the car yet, but he waits, staring from behind closed curtains.

“Hamilton?” Burr asks from the other end.

“Hey, sorry. Four black Audis just pulled up in front of my complex? I have a bad feeling about it.” He shifts, keeps his voice to a whisper.

Burr is aware of the low-income neighborhood that Hamilton resides in. Slowly, he asks, “Have you been investigating the mafia prior to this discussion?”

“The Syndicate, yes.”

“For how long?”

“About a week or so.”

“Shit.”

“Burr?”

“You need to leave. Now.”

His mind goes back to Hercules. His stomach tightens, and he hears a car door slam. He peeks out of the window again, and is almost sure he sees Lafayette and a group of men behind him approaching his apartment complex. They’re all in black suits, in the snow, walking with their shoulders back, chins raised. And they have rifles. But that can’t be Lafayette with the Syndicate, if his judgement is correct. Then he sees the neon orange cast on his left wrist, tucked under the black suit jacket.

He drops back against the wall, staring at the front door, across from him.

Holy shit.

He contemplates his options, and then drops to the ground, pinching the phone between his shoulder and his ear and he crawls to his bedroom, pulling on his clothes and shoving a change into his book bag, along with other essentials. He grabs his badge, a few water bottles, a fleece jacket, his phone charger, and his laptop. He pulls his coat and scarf on, while listening to Burr prattle on about fire escapes.

The fire escape.

Upon pulling on his combat boots, he tiptoes back to the window. They’d have to have gone in by now. He tiptoes to the door, glances out into the hallway, and seeing that it is empty, he slips out into it, closing his door behind him.

When he hears a group of men chattering on the stairs, he nearly pisses himself, slipping into the janitor’s closet, down the hall. He watches from the slits on the door, as the seven of them approach Hamilton’s door. He holds his breath as Lafayette knocks.

“ _Jambon_?” He calls sweetly.

From what he can see, each of the men have automatic rifles. That’s not good. He nearly pukes. Lafayette continues to call to him again, this time, with more irritation. He squeezes himself into a small space, between a janitor bucket and a shelf, adrenaline rushing in his ears.

Burr says, “I’m on my way.”

“Don’t drive to the building!” Hamilton hisses into the receiver. “When they go into my room, I’m going to run, and I’ll meet you at that McDonalds by my apartment.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. Now sh.”

The polite knocking becomes pounding, and he hears his neighbor, Fersen, across the hall, open his door in annoyance, asking, “Could you keep it down? My daughter is trying to sleep.” But then he must see the rifles, because he doesn’t speak. Wide eyed with terror, Hamilton waits to listen to the consequences, praying they just let him go back inside. He knows Lafayette wouldn’t kill a man—he stops, because then he realizes that the Lafayette he thought he knew doesn’t even exist. The Lafayette he thought he knew is in the Syndicate.

Completely having forgotten Burr was on the phone, he jumps when he hears him ask,

“Hamilton, are you alright?”

“Yes,” he whispers. “I think they’re holding my neighbor at gunpoint, though.”

“They won’t kill him,” Burr says simply. “They’re not supposed to kill innocents. That’s how they get messy, and mob bosses don’t like messy.”

Good to know. He goes silent when he hears Lafayette faintly ask of Hamilton’s whereabouts, to which Fersen replies that he hadn’t seen him come home, even though Hamilton and Fersen spoke briefly when they passed each other earlier. He almost sobs with relief, that this man sees the likely ass-whooping Hamilton is in for, and decides to protect him, anyway, even with seven rifles aimed to kill him.

“Do you not have a key to his door?” Lafayette inquires.

“I don’t. We’re neighbors, not best friends.”

It sickens Hamilton to think that he can trust strangers more than his own friends.

“So then you do not mind if we ask you where you last saw him go?” He hears the rifle cock.

Fersen stands his ground, though. “Work, maybe. We don’t cross paths very often.”

Lafayette’s voice is irritated, but he doesn’t press the situation. “You three, kick down the door. I’ll take care of this _merde_.” Hamilton assumes he’s referring to Fersen, and he hears rapid fire gunshots. The shock hits him immediately, and he covers his mouth to keep from making noise. He hears all of them file into his apartment, and he slips out of the janitor’s closet, with a glance back at Fersen. He’s lying face down in a pool of blood, and Hamilton almost pukes, and he remembers his daughter, in her bedroom. Stuck halfway between just dipping, or going back to get her, he’s bouncing on his toes. He knows they’ll be back out any minute now, and he doesn’t think they’d kill a defenseless little girl, but…with another look back down at Fersen, he’s rushing back to her room, wrapping her in whatever he can find, grabbing a stuffed animal off of her bed, and leaving through the fire escape outside the window. She’s crying hysterically, asking for her father, which catches Lafayette’s army’s attention, unfortunately.

Hamilton’s glad she hasn’t seen Fersen’s fate, but is having grave difficulty getting down the fire escape, quick enough. She’s wailing, and he realizes that it will draw attention to a man carrying a little girl against his shoulder. To placate her, he gives her the stuffed animal, zig-zagging down the stairs, trying not to look back, but he feels the whole staircase shake when one by one, Lafayette’s henchmen follow him down it. They’re having a rather difficult time keeping up, with their guns hoisted over their shoulders, and the wobbling structure. Hamilton, thankfully, has reached the bottom, and has continued to run.

His lungs are burning and his throat is raw, but he doesn’t stop, and continues to run in a zig zag pattern, around the side of their building. He can hear the men shouting, and they’re not far behind them. The little girl has stopped crying, and he realizes that he’s hung up on Burr. When they turn another corner, they’re on the side of a busy New York street, and looking behind him, he can’t see anyone. Quickly, he puts the girl down and squats so that he’s face-level.

“What’s your name?” He asks breathlessly, glancing over his shoulder. He can see a few of the guys coming around the corner, but they don’t see the two of them.

“Charlotte,” she sniffles. “Daddy calls me Charlie.”

“Okay, Charlie,” Hamilton whispers, looking back over his shoulder. “I’m Alex. I’m a cop. I need you to get under that car right there. Don’t say a word, alright?”

She complies, scooching under the car on her belly, which Hamilton follows suit. She’s still sniffling, and when Hamilton sees the heavy boots on the sidewalk, the ones sporting Fersen’s blood, he closes his eyes. Prays. Shit.

He looks back at Charlie, whose eyes are wet with tears. He gets his phone out, calls Burr. They don’t move until he sees seven pairs of boots retreating.

* * *

 

“We should switch.”

“What?” Hamilton looks up from his coffee. He, Charlie, and Burr are sitting in an old diner outside of Manhattan. They’d decided it wasn’t safe for them to be in New York, after the recent events. Charlie drinks her hot chocolate, and asks,

“When is daddy coming back?”

Burr and Hamilton exchange glances. “Soon,” Burr answers, earning a bewildered look from Hamilton. “How old are you, sweetie?”

“Daddy told me not to talk to strangers.” Her face is pale, but her cheeks and nose are a blotchy red. Hamilton figures that’s either a result of her crying, or the weather.

“I’m a police officer,” he tells her, showing her his badge. She takes it, holds the heavy weight, and then smiles.

“I’m 7 and a half,” she answers proudly. “My birthday was in December!” She tilts the badge, this way and that, letting it glint in the light.

“Wow!” Burr sounds enthusiastic. His perfect smile is easy and genuine. “What’d you get for your birthday?”

While Burr and Charlie carry on a conversation, Hamilton excuses himself and walks to the empty bathroom.

He can’t get the image of her father out of his head. He can’t forget that Lafayette was so lividly trying to kill him. He can’t forget the vulnerability that he felt, running from machine guns. He splashes water on his face, stares back at the urinals in the mirror. What would Hercules say, if he were here?

He tries his best to think, but he’s never been in this situation before. Hercules would probably slap him. Grab him by the collar, shove him around, maybe. Call him a dumbass. Point out, very clearly, that he could have been killed. Say, “I told you so, jackass.” Say, “You never listen, hardhead.” He frowns at himself in the mirror. Burr’s right. They need to switch.

When he gets back to the table, Burr and Charlie are playing tic tac toe on the frosted window, in which Hamilton watches for a moment, before saying, “You’re right.”

Burr, who allows Charlie to win, looks up at Hamilton before asking, “About what?”

“We need to switch.” He leans in, keeps his voice low. “I’ll go after the Jeffersons if you go after the Syndicate.”

Burr watches Hamilton for a moment, and asks, “Are you sure?”

“It was your idea. Yes, I’m sure.” It feels kind of dumb to doubt Burr’s plan, at this point; especially when things are far from going Hamilton’s way. He sighs.

“If you’re worried about it,” Burr says, jerking his head to Charlie. “The M-O-B probably took care of the B-O-D-Y. There’s no way they wouldn’t. The General is very clandestine.”

“Burr, who the fuck uses words like that?” Hamilton’s irritation is reaching its boiling point. It’s his fault this girl’s father is dead.

“And who uses words like _that_ in front of a young _lady_?” Burr looks deeply offended.

“I can spell,” Charlie says plainly. “Plus, mommy cusses, too.”

Hamilton’s ears perk up. “Your mommy? Where is she?”

“I don’t know. She was sad that her boyfriend went away, and so daddy and mommy started fighting. Then me and daddy moved.” She’s explaining it pretty well, and so Burr and Hamilton exchange glances.

They shouldn’t have this kid, but Hamilton feels responsible for her at this point. However, she would inevitably become a target, if she stayed with Hamilton. She’s a target already, anyway. She ran from them.

Hamilton massages his temples. “Goddamn it, Burr.”

“I know, I know. We’ll figure something out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Literally first time I've ever written an action scene. God dammilton. 
> 
> Anyway, I appreciate your patience! Stay tuned <3


	7. Pt. 2

“Are you alright?”

“Huh?”

“You sound a little distracted,” George says, slightly bemused. “You’re not as talkative.”

“Couldn’t sleep last night.” He looks to his left, sees Charlie snuggled up with her bear, and Burr on the opposite end of the bed. They’d decided to stay at a motel for the night, but with their combined cash funds, could only book a one-bed room. The bed, fortunately, was fairly large for such a small room, and Burr and Hamilton managed to get Charlie to fall asleep, so that they could take turns staying up. However, instead of taking 30 minutes shifts, Burr had just let Hamilton sleep. He sighs, gets up.

“Long night?”

“Work is stressful,” he admits, which isn’t a complete lie. “What about you?”

“I’ll be back in town by this afternoon.” He sounds jolly, in his laid back sort of way. “Perhaps if you aren’t too tired, you and I can meet up for lunch, and go do something afterwards?”

It sounds lovely, and he’d like to unwind with George after such a strange night. He still keeps hoping it’s all some twisted nightmare, but _Lafayette was there and he killed Fersen, and they’re hunting him down as they speak_. Of course he can’t tell George about this—he figures discretion is his best friend at this point—so he tip toes around it. “I’m, uh, out of town.”

“Are you?” George asks.

“Yea. Uh, family emergency.” He looks back down at Charlie, and then Burr. “My niece’s father passed away.”

George, whom doesn’t generally express concern, says, “My word. I’m sorry for your loss, Alex.”

He realizes that the father of his niece would, in turn, be his brother. One way or another. “Thank you.”

“If you need anything, at all…” he trails off. “Is she going to stay with her mother?”

“We’re trying to find her,” he groggily tries to recall what Charlie said, the night before. “They, uh, split up.”

“That’s terrible,” George mumbles. “Well, I wish you the best of luck. I wish I could help.”

“Actually,” his eyes drift to the window. “You can.”

“I can?” If it was an empty offer, Hamilton doesn’t care. He needs all the help he can get.

“See if you can find a Charlotte Fersen, in the books.” He walks into the bathroom. “City Hall, or something.”

“Text me the name,” is all George says.

* * *

 

Burr and Hamilton devise a plan when Burr wakes up, but they allow Charlie to sleep. Hamilton, having already taken his shower, sits in front of the desk, swiveling in the chair while Burr dresses.

“I asked a friend of mine to look into ‘Charlotte Fersen.’”

“Who’s that?” Burr asks, pulling his socks on, on the floor. He doesn’t seem too bothered, until Hamilton says,

“Charlie.”

Burr lifts his eyes to meet Hamilton’s slowly. His face is frozen, and he looks absolutely livid. “ _Why on earth_ would you do that? Do you know what happens if he finds out who she is? That’s his life in danger and hers!” He’s harshly whispering, as to not wake the girl.

“It’s just innocent research,”

“ _Innocent_? This girl’s father was just gunned down, and she is—by definition—missing. If this guy goes and looks her up, you don’t think the Syndicate will find out come after her?”

“They don’t know her name. They don’t even know Fersen’s.” He immediately feels guilty, having put George in harm’s way. He’ll make sure to text him not to do it, after all.

“Well, what is his name?”

“Axel Fersen. I couldn’t find a Mrs. Fersen, even though Charlie says they were married.” Hamilton swivels the chair again.

“She never said they were married. Maybe Charlie’s mother has a different last name.” Burr looks back to her, and then back to Hamilton. “We need to find someone to take care of her while we sort this out.”

It’s very obvious that they can’t drop her off at the police station. She’ll tell them what happened. She’ll tell them Alex kidnapped her and Aaron slept in her bed. She’ll tell them Alex was there when they killed her father. Then they’ll find out who killed her father, or they’ll blame it on Hamilton.

It won’t take long for their charade to fall apart. He massages his temples.

“We _really_ need her to go somewhere.”

“What about Mulligan? He has a daughter, doesn’t he?”

“Trinity is a lot younger than Charlie is, but, maybe we can drop her off with him when he takes his daughter to daycare. We can say she’s my niece.” He already has started the lie. No reason he shouldn’t keep it going. “But she shouldn’t be in New York City. She needs to be safe, away from there. Where they won’t find her.”

Burr sighs. “The Syndicate is everywhere. If they’re looking for you, they’re going to find you.”

“That isn’t the spirit,” Hamilton frowns. “But I wonder how long they’ve been after me.”

“Pardon?” Burr looks up. “Probably as long as you’ve been after them.”

“That guy,” Hamilton says, slowly. “That was after me last night… His name was Lafayette. We’ve been close friends for the last seven years. He came to America from France and I asked for directions, and he then he told me, in French, that he needed help, too. Since then,” his faint smile, upon retelling the story, disappears. “We’ve been friends. Do you think—all of this is a coincidence?”

“Byzantine, isn’t it?”

Hamilton sighs. “He looked way too serious. I’m afraid of what would have happened if I hadn’t seen him coming, Burr.” His voice breaks when sheer realization hits him. Hercules has truly always been his only friend. And now he doesn’t even have that. And why would Hercules help him, when they haven’t talked since the argument?

His heart drops.

What if Lafayette went after Hercules?

He stands up, nausea hitting him like a sack of bricks dropped from the Empire State Building. “We need to go back. Now.”

* * *

 

The Sunday paper sometimes shows up on Hercules’ doorstep, sometimes it doesn’t. Today, it hasn’t, and he couldn’t care less. Trinity is eating her cereal, feeding Moose, but also dropping Cheerios everywhere. Hercules shaves in the bathroom, watching her in the mirror, with the dog sitting at his feet. He’s just a puppy, but he’s a pitbull, and he absolutely adores Trinity. His name is Bull. The older pitbull, Pippa, sits complacently with Trinity, watching the cartoons with her, but also licking her injured paw and licking up the dropped Cheerios.

“Trin, I hope you’re not making a mess,” Hercules calls, focusing on his face, in the mirror. Bull, who is whining, is suddenly distracted by a knock on the door. Pippa has learned not to bark at the door, but Bull is still young and reckless. He runs clumsily to the front door, barking hysterically, followed by a slower-walking Hercules, who shushes him with a cuff on the head with last Sunday’s paper.

“Hush,” he grumbles, and opens the door, having wiped the rest of the shaving cream from his cheeks.

He’s met by a small young man, holding a box, and a clipboard. “Package, for Hercules Mulligan,” he says simply. “I need your signature.”

Signing with the provided pen, Hercules accepts the box, and bids goodbye to the delivery man as he closes the door. Inspecting the box, he concludes that it must be his dogs’ collars that he ordered off of Amazon, and walks back into the bathroom, but this time, alone. Bull and Pippa are now competing over the abandoned bowl of Cheerios, as Trinity is completely engrossed in a sing-along TV show, with small mermaid creatures singing annoyingly.

In the bathroom, his phone lights up with:

 **Alex H.  
** _don’t go outside & don’t open the door herc_

He replies, _good morning to you too_ , and reapplies the shaving cream, to begin shaving again.

 **Alex H.  
** _I’m serious you have to trust me, alright??_

Alex, are you okay?

 _just trust me herc stay indoors and keep an eye on Trinidad_  
_*trinity_  
_stupid autocorrect_

Alright, man if it makes you feel better

He goes back to shaving, humming to himself, dragging the razor down his cheek at an angle. Trinity must have run out of food, because Bull comes thudding down the hallway, overly excited, and tumbles into the linen closet door.

With a sharp whistle and the click of his tongue, Hercules reprimands him.

With another glance at his phone, he suddenly realizes why Alex has urgently commanded him to stay indoors. He drops his razor, and rushes into Trinity’s room, shoving her clothes into her bag, along with some other stuff she likes to have. In his room, he packs his things, too, and gets the dogs on their leashes.

“Trinity, baby, I need you to put your shoes on. We’re leaving,”

* * *

 

Washington’s drive isn’t a long one. Sunday morning traffic isn’t as bad as he thought it would be—even in New York. He’s complacent, singing with Jack Leonard, “ _Who~? Stole my heart away, who~? Makes me dream all the dreams I know can never come true?_ ” He hums the rest, checking behind him briefly, before switching lanes.

His mind wanders to Alex, and he remembers how devastated the boy is, with his niece. He sighs. Washington remembers when he lost his own brother. It was to pneumonia. However, Washington wonders whether he’d be alive today, still, if he hadn’t passed so soon. What kind of person he’d be. He died when he was 12. Washington, himself, was only 9.

Now that he thinks about it, he never knew his brother all that well. He was being groomed by their father to join the Syndicate. The plan was for their youngest son to have a life better than they had. But after Lawrence died, they needed an heir.

And, well.

Here he is.

He doesn’t dwell on the decisions of his parents too much. History is history. Glenn Miller plays next, when Tommy Dorsey goes off, and he finds himself to be more relaxed.

But then he thinks about that meeting on Tuesday, with the Commission. The Commission is the governing head of the Jeffersons and the Syndicate. Electoral members from families of La Cosa Nostra that regulate disputes between families and govern the bosses. If they’re doing terrible jobs, they’re replaced (killed). If they’re doing a wonderful job, they’re rewarded.

And if Washington is drawing attention to the Syndicate with something as big as the murder of the police commissioner, the Commission will replace him. Without a doubt.

However, he put a hit out on whoever was menacing. He sits back. Threatening Lafayette’s life should have certainly put him in order. Everything should be fine now.

* * *

 

It’s a thirty minute drive back to New York City, but upon getting to Hercules’ apartment, no one will answer, and Hamilton’s heart nearly shits itself. His mind is racing, and he feels himself going lightheaded. Either Hercules is taking his advice very seriously, or Lafayette got to him, first.

He paces around back, and breaks a window with a random brick he finds in the backyard. He unlocks it from the inside, and pushes it up, stepping in carefully. He calls out, but finds that it’s empty. Maybe they’re hiding.

He walks around for a moment, looking for any sign of life. The dogs are gone, too. He can’t find blood anywhere, and there’s no sign of struggle. But of course, if Lafayette approached Hercules the way he was planning on approaching Hamilton, he doesn’t think the detective would put up a fight if it put his daughter in danger.

No, Hercules is smart. If they cooperate, maybe they’ll stay alive. He tries to distract himself from the nagging, ‘ _No they won’t, you asshole, this is all your fault_ ’ in the back of his mind. He finds Moose on the kitchen table, and he falls back. This time, he really does throw up, in the sink. He breaks down to a sob, against the counter, his body racking when he lets out an agonizing wail, clutching the small, plush monkey to his chest. He feels his heart break when he pictures her with it, and all he sees Hercules in Fersen’s place. He scrambles to his feet and dry heaves over the sink at the image. He can’t be responsible for another orphan.

* * *

 

“We cannot show up empty handed!” Lafayette practically screams. A few strands of hair have gone gray overnight. He hasn’t slept at all. “Get the body, Sammy.”

At this, a disgusted Sammy stands and walks over to the dead body of Axel Fersen, and stares down at it. He shudders, and wheels the cart over to Lafayette, who is pacing around the warehouse. It’s tucked into a body bag, so that only the face is unzipped. He doesn’t speak. No one speaks when Lafayette is this livid.

“We will tell him the man was killed, he tried to shoot one of us,” Lafayette declares.

“Who’d he try to kill?” One soldier asks, and at that, Lafayette pulls his gun and shoots him three times, once in the gut, once in the chest, and then in his head.

“You.” He pockets his handgun and continues, “Now, _sil te plaît_ someone, get him out of here. We will say that this unfortunate man was the menace.”

Sammy, shocked, nods rapidly, to show he has no objections. He zips the body bag back up, and heeds his commands.

“Sammy, you will recreate his birth certificate and get him a detective badge. I want ID, I want social security. I want job records, I want exes, I want past phone numbers. Do whatever you must to remake this man into a deceased detective. A new name. A new everything. _Oui_?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I need it by tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I will work everything else out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow I updated twice in one day! I'm really excited to be writing this story for anyone who reads it & I appreciate every comment, every kudos, and every hit.  
> you all keep me wanting to write & I couldn't be more grateful to have such sweet and dedicated readers ❤
> 
> ALSO:  
> please be patient. The Ham/Wash, at this point, is rapidly approaching!!!


	8. Stairway to the Stars

The date doesn’t do much to distract Hamilton from the gruesome reality: Hercules’ inevitable demise and Fersen’s unjust ending. He still freezes whenever he realizes this stranger got himself killed, in an attempt to protect him.

They’re sitting at an outdoor café, idly conversing and laughing softly, occasionally. Hamilton mostly talks about his night—utter bullshit to evade suspicion.

“Karaoke is my ideal date,” George confesses. He doesn’t mention that his voice is probably what one hears, upon entering heaven. “It’s fun to watch my date have fun.”

“Such a modest response. That’s cute,” Hamilton chuckles. “Why not Go-Karts?”

“Because I’m very competitive. I would beat you, no doubt, in Go-Karts, Alex, let’s not go there.”

“You’re on,” he answers smugly. Go-Karts could be fun.

“We can schedule that for a later date,” George replies, sipping his water.

“Hit me with your best knock-knock joke,” Hamilton demands suddenly, sitting forward, with all focus on George. Such a handsome man. A nice laugh, rich baritone voice like honey, heavy broad shoulders and those _eyebrows_. His smile is cute, too. Wide, with that little gap. Hamilton sighs happily. Smart as a whip. Kind, charismatic. Romantic. Encouraging.

Pondering, George thinks about it for a moment, before his face lights up and he drops his napkin. “Okay, I got it. Ready?”

“Ready,” Hamilton smiles. Dear God, the man actually looks as if it’s about to be _funny_. That’s cute.

“Knock, knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Orange.”

He rolls his eyes. “Orange who?”

He leans in, and with the smoothest eyebrow wiggle ever, he asks, “ _Orange_ you glad you opened the door?”

“Get _out_! You’re lame!” Hamilton cackles, shoving George across the table, snorting with laughter as he covers his own face. George chuckles, too, and says,

“The joke is only half the battle. Performance is a big part of joke-telling, Alexander. Take notes.” He moves to sip his water again as Hamilton asks,

“Oh, is that what it is? _Performance_?”

“I learned that joke from my grandma,” George admits, folding the cloth napkin into his lap. “Wisest woman I’ve yet met.”

“Your grandma told you _knock-knock jokes_? My grandma gave me grandma candies and watched me when my mom was busy,” he laughs. Perhaps if Hamilton’s grandmother told him knock-knock jokes, he would find them funny, too. Maybe he wouldn’t have turned out to be such an idiot.

He swallows the sudden guilt rising in his chest.

When their appetizers are delivered, the smell of food makes Hamilton nauseous, despite not having eaten since the past afternoon. He can’t bring himself to eat.

“Is the food not that good, or are you just not hungry?” George asks, watching Hamilton watch his plate. He has gotten halfway through his appetizer, and Hamilton has barely lifted a finger.

His gaze is distracted, but he does his best to focus on George. George is sane. George is solid. George would never hurt him. George will always be here. He takes a deep breath.

“Not hungry.”

George nods slowly, and sits up, wipes his mouth with the large cloth napkin, and pushes his plate back. “I know it’s hard.”

What’s hard? Realizing he no longer has friends, family, or guidance? Realizing that he’s responsible for the orphanism of two young girls? Realizing the only guy that ever gave two shits about him is probably dead, somewhere? And that Hamilton is responsible for that.

“It should have been me,” he mumbles, staring through George. There’s a deadweight in his stomach. He needs to find Lafayette.

“Alex, there’s probably nothing you could have done.” George sounds sincere.

“You have no idea,” Hamilton says, eyes currently wide and wet with tears. “I could have saved him. I could have saved all of them.”

Remarkably, George comes around the side of the table and kneels in front of him, wiping the tears from his eyes. He doesn’t seem to give a shit about scuffing his shoes or his suit, or even about people watching them. He keeps his eyes on Hamilton’s. “This is not your fault, Alexander. You can’t change what happened, but you have an opportunity to make it right. Your brother’s death isn’t blood on your hands, love. You can’t blame yourself.”

Hamilton’s eyes lift to meet George’s, eyelashes wet with tears, lips slightly parted, hair falling over his shoulders. This boy is truly Adam’s Eve, George muses, and he stops himself. The way the light is hitting glowing, sunkissed skin, making those brown orbs shimmer. He flutters his eyelashes in alarm at George’s current position, who is kneeling in front of him.

Before he can stop himself, he’s leaning forward, placing a gentle kiss on George’s warm, parted lips. It’s a long kiss, one that makes his heart flutter, one that makes his head spin, one that leaves him wanting more. But then he remembers where they are, and he breaks it, flushing deeply at how George is looking at him.

This giant of a man, humbled by Hamilton’s mere presence, kneeling in front of him, with a heavy hand resting on Hamilton’s knee is enough to make him blink back tears. To George, those eyelashes are more beautiful than a butterfly’s wings, the way they flit so gracefully, so easily. He could stare into these eyes forever, he thinks.

“I’m sorry,” Hamilton whispers, looking away. “I didn’t mean to…”

“No, don’t be sorry, Alex,” George says, still kneeling. He takes the boy’s hands, kisses his knuckles sweetly. “Don’t ever be sorry.”

Alex blushes again, hiding his face with his other hand to disguise a grin, and Washington dies inside. He never thought he’d be _this_ person, to say _these_ things, to one _this_ beautiful. Mob bosses are supposed to be rocks, but Alex is making him crumble, and he’s crumbling at an alarming pace. He isn’t sure if it’s a good thing, to fall for one so quickly—one in Alex’s field of work, for that matter—but Washington loves the way Alexander looks at him, the way he smiles, the way he plays with his hair, the way he hides his face when he laughs. When he cries, he’s so beautiful, and it makes Washington’s heart break. The renewed heart, that is. He hadn’t cared before he met Alexander.

Now, dare he say, he cares only for Alex. He wants to hold this boy, and make him smile and laugh and be the only one to kiss him and make him cum—nope. Too soon for that.

He moves back to his seat across the table when Alex stops crying, folds his hands in his lap when Alex smiles bashfully. “You’re beautiful, you know.”

“Beautiful?” He asks, pushing a strand of loose hair behind his ear, “Tell me more.”

Washington chuckles, props his elbow onto the table, leans on his fist. “I like how your eyes sparkle. I like how your smile spreads.”

Alex, who probably wasn’t expecting it, hides his face in his laugh. “I was kidding, George,”

“No you weren’t,” his own smile forms, and he feels his phone buzz in his pocket. He turns his attention to the cars driving by, to the people walking by on their phones. Surprisingly, it’s a mild day. About 60 degrees, sunny, and Washington thinks it’s the perfect day for a date. The world must be ending, though, because it’s still January, and New York weather doesn’t warm up until about April. _Maybe_ March.

He looks back to Alex, who is now picking through his salad, eating the cucumbers and little cubes of chicken that he finds. He doesn’t seem to notice the way Washington studies his hands, and his shoulders, and how his ears tint pink, too, when he blushes.

“Do you have any nicknames?” Alex asks, suddenly, upon eating a leaf of lettuce.

Washington considers this. No, not really. But then again, he really isn’t even on a first name basis with anyone, let alone a _nickname_ basis. However, Laurens calls him ‘GWash’ and ‘G-Dubbs’. He shrugs. “Not many nicknames to George.”

“What!” Alex dramatically splays his hand over his chest, mock offended. “I could come up with a _ton_ for you,”

“Go ahead,” he replies simply, moving to eat his salad again. Honestly, he’s glad he can be a distraction from Alex’s grieving. It can be hard, and Washington is glad he has the ability and the opportunity to help this boy through it.

“Eyebrows.”

“Clever,” he huffs, wiping his hands on his napkin.

Alex sounds excited when he offers, “Or—what about G-Thang?”

“As in g-string?” He furrows his heavy brows in confusion. He’s not so sure about that one.

“ _No_. Like… you’ve never heard that song before?” Alex looks genuinely concerned.

“They make songs about thongs?” Washington tilts his head in confusion, as well.

“I said G- _THANG._ Like ‘thing,’ but pronounced ‘thang.’” He pauses, and upon Washington’s further confusion, he asks, “The song by Snoop Dogg and Dr. Dre?” He hums a few bars of the tune to emphasize his point. Washington only shakes his head slowly, with the same look on his face. Alex sighs, exasperation evident. “Okay, nevermind.”

Washington laughs, and says, “‘Eyebrows’ it is. And that was only two.”

* * *

 

Hercules has sought his daughter refuge in a community center, one she has never been to before, in case Lafayette is aware of his habits. The dogs, he’d dropped off at a friend’s house, and now he’s on his way to the warehouse. It’s dumb, he knows, but he needs to sort this out.

He figures if Lafayette is after Alex, himself, something must have happened between him and the General. And that is not good news for Hercules. It means Lafayette is pissed off, and clearly, he did not accomplish his goal because Alex just texted him a few hours ago.

So that means Lafayette is still hunting Alex, and Alex was afraid he’d go after Hercules.

Well, he’s not wrong.

With Trinity safely out of sight, he jogs up the church stairs, and sees a gorgeous, powder-white woman sitting on the concrete guard rails. She has extravagant, shiny blond hair pinned up on her head and also coiled in tight ringlets, down her back. Her cheeks are dusted rose, and her eyeliner is thick and sharp to a point. She’s chubby and looks like an actress, the way her bright red lipstick proudly crowns her thick lips. She wears lavish jewelry on her neck, and beaded into her hair. Her rings are large and diamond, decorating her plump, pale fingers, which are manicured to be a shiny nude.

But why is she sitting outside of the Syndicate warehouse?

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Hercules starts, approaching her. “Are you lost?”

“I don’t think so,” she responds in a heavy Southern accent, turning to look at Hercules, but she doesn’t move. She tilts her head ever so slightly, but Hercules is afraid the precarious hairdo might drag her down. “This is the Episcopal Church of St. Stephen, is it not?”

A muscle in his tight jaw twitches. “It is.”

“Then I’m not lost, sweetie.” She folds her hands over her floral sundress, which Hercules thinks it isn’t warm enough for, yet. She smiles prettily, straight white teeth looking ready to crush his windpipe. “I’m looking for a Mister Hercules Mulligan.”

He steps back. “That’s me.” He hadn’t intended for literal windpipe-crushing to occur.

“I was told you could help me by one _Monsieur Lafayette_ ,” she stands up, gathers her dress at her thighs to prevent tripping and strides toward him with her head held high. “I’m looking for my daughter.”

“And why would Lafayette tell me to help you?” His voice is flat. Either this is a trap and this Southern Belle is leading him right to it, or Lafayette is too busy to be bothered with Hercules to mind him at the moment. Both sound like fairly accurate assumptions.

“We’re old friends.” She circles around Hercules, drinking in the sight of him, up and down. His name does him justice. A huge man. Broad shoulders. Serious face. “He said if you helped me out, he wouldn’t kick your behind.” She pronounces it more like _bee-_ hind.

“Then, consider yourself helped.” He likes the sound of that. Lafayette is a man of his word. And as cruel as his boss can be, he knows he has loyal soldiers. So, helping this lady out shouldn’t be a problem. “What’s your name?”

“Marie,” she says complacently. “Marie Antoinette.”

He nearly chokes on his saliva. “You mean—?”

“Yes. I was the Commissioner’s wife.” She doesn’t seem like she wants to talk about it, though she seems distraught as she distracts herself. “First I lose my husband, and now my daughter? God, what’s next?”

He looks at the jewelry and says, “Your taste is…expensive.”

She frowns. “And I know about _you_ , Mister Mulligan.” Her twangy accent makes his name sound like a prayer. “A detective, but a soldier in the Syndicate?”

“Keep your voice down,” he mumbles when she leans in. Her cleavage is very clearly in view, but Hercules looks away. “Yes, I’m a spy on the inside.”

“That’s right: Hercules Mulligan,” she chuckles. “Now you gonna help me or not, sugar?”

“I’ll help you,” he mutters. “When’d you last see your daughter?”

“It’s no typical missing child case,” she says dismissively, swatting the air. She begins to walk down the steps, and Hercules follows her. “Mister Lafayette says if you help me efficiently, you keep your eyeballs, your fingers, and your toes. He said he’d leave your daughter out of it. That sounds like a pretty darn good deal to me, so I reckon you start helpin’ me out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a relatively short chapter, but it was also emotionally soothing, I think, just to relax you guys. :) Can't have everything high-strung, all the time.
> 
> ANNOUNCEMENTS:  
> 1\. I have made another Tumblr account (user & icon are the same) dedicated to my work, up here. I'll be uploading previews, fanart, asks, polls, and all that stuff. Give it a follow if you'd like :)
> 
> 2\. MY BIRTHDAY IS ON SATURDAY! IT IS JULY 23. If anyone is in VA, I'll be at the War Memorial Park in Hampton, and if you see me, stop by and say hello! I'm not mean, I promise. :0 I'll be the loser with purple hair in the stands, cheering on the Pilots. :) If you have any questions, drop a comment or chill in my inbox on Tumblr! 
> 
> 3\. ily all, remember to drink water & be kind to everyone
> 
> (and yes I do actually listen to swing music tyvm)


	9. Soho Hotel

Lafayette understands that it would be in his best interest to give his boss _a_ body, even if it’s utter bullshit. He has no idea whose body it is he’s claiming, but he figures it gives him more time to track down that fucking detective and make his goddamn neck smile.

Because Washington is genuinely a good man, he wouldn’t kill Lafayette without a good reason. And Lafayette getting Washington killed would be a good reason to have Lafayette killed, he understands. But if he can provide some sort of reassurance, Washington will be in a better mood, and it would allow for Lafayette to work behind his back and take Hamilton out, without Washington ever having known who he was.

Victory will be sweet.

But _Hercules_.

His teeth grate.

That fucking ungrateful bastard.

He’s seething, in his hotel room, pacing around while Benjamin folds their laundry. Benjamin Huger was an old friend that Lafayette stayed with, upon his voyage to America. He now takes him as more of a mistress, than anything, but he knows wife, Adrienne, has her own fair share of women occupying their bedroom. He huffs.

“Benjamin.”

“Yes, my love?”

“Will you get my wife on the phone?” He stares at the flowers in their vase, wilting ever so slightly. He’d gotten them for Benjamin one evening. What a sweet boy, he muses. He hadn’t known a lick of French when he’d met Lafayette, but over the past 7 years, the man has become more fluent than Lafayette, whom did not mind it at all. Adrienne speaks less English than Lafayette does.

“ _Oui_?” She asks, answering the phone.

“ _Adrienne, il est moi. Quel est la temps dans notre chèr France_?” [1] He looks wearily out of the window, watching the New Yorkers shuffle about. Sometimes, he gets homesick. Hearing Adrienne’s sweet voice makes him wish he was back home, to play in her wild curls.

“19:25,” she answers. And in French, she asks, “ _What is wrong, my sweet love? You never call unless it brings ill fortune._ ”

“ _Nothing is the matter, Adrienne. And that is not so._ ”

“ _Then why should you sound so down? Our children wish to speak to their father; I would not let them have him when he has been drinking_.”

He passes a hand over his tired face, plops down on the bed. Benjamin touches his shoulder hesitantly, and when Lafayette doesn’t flinch, he moves to massage his shoulders, to ease him. Lafayette answers, “ _He does not drink, my love. Let him speak to his daughters and son._ ” He couldn’t leave his four children in this world without their father. His family comes before his religion.

“ _Very well_ ,” she sighs. “ _Georges. Your father would speak to you_.”

He hears the phone rustle around, and then a very soft,

“Papa?”

“Georges, it is me. Are you learning the English, my son?” He’s quite impressed. At eight, Lafayette could hardly speak French.

“I am,” he sounds proud.

“You are doing very well, _doudou_ [2].” He lets Benjamin kiss his neck as he closes his eyes. Occasionally, Lafayette gets a long enough break from work to venture back to France to see his loved ones, during the summer. He doubts, with these recent events, that Washington will grant him the same leisure this year. His heart breaks to hear his little boy struggle with a response in English, and eventually switches back to his native tongue. English is a hard language. But Americans are worse.

* * *

 

Hercules is enjoying the company of the Marie Antoinette, who will not let him say her first name without her last. He asks, “What’s your daughter’s name?”

“Marie Thérèse Charlotte.”

“That’s a mouthful.” He hopes he’ll be allowed to call her without saying the whole name, the way Marie Antoinette has instructed him with her.

“We call her Charlie.”

He nods. Good. “Okay, Charlie. Charlie, what?”

“Capet.” She starts on the sidewalk, Hercules beside her. “Like her father.”

“And yet you take your maiden name?”

“Louis and I were separated.”

“Divorced?”

“No. Still married. We lived together. Stayed together. For the kids.”

“How many do you have?”

“Four, including Charlie. She’s the oldest, she’s seven.” She blinks back tears, fiddles with her wedding ring. “Louis and I were so happy when we found out we were pregnant.”

Hercules nods. “Heard you’d been trying for some time.”

“Lou and I’d always wanted a daughter.” She sighs, sniffles. “I miss my husband. I need to keep this family together.”

“So, where do you think Charlie is?” Hercules asks.

“When I found out she had gone missing, I went straight to the Marquis.” She looks out into the street. “I know he and my husband were total opposites in profession, but he and I easily became friends, at a gala in Paris. His wife is so sweet.”

“You speak French?” Hercules asks. Seems like everyone can, except him. Alex, Lafayette, Laurens, Capet, Robespierre, and now Marie Antoinette? Wonderful.

“Some. Not super proficient. But I can speak it. Those French just talk too damn fast.” She thinks for a moment. “But, yea, I went to Lafayette immediately, he’s like my GBF. I tell him everything. He told me to come to you—said you would find her.”

Hercules isn’t sure that he can. Either Lafayette did this because it’s mission impossible, and he really needs another excuse to whoop Hercules’ ass, or he thinks because Hercules is a detective with the necessary equipment, he can do it. Again, he isn’t sure which one sounds more like his boss. It makes him nervous.

“We’ll find her,” he assures her. “But, why aren’t you hysterical over your missing daughter?”

“Excuse me?” She looks up from the sidewalk.

“Most moms with missing 7 year olds aren’t as cool and collected,” he muses. It’s strange to him. “Just curious.”

“If you must know, I’m too exhausted to cry,” Marie replies bitterly. “I’ve cried every night for the last three weeks. I’ve hated myself for every argument we ever had. I’ve lost so much of myself since Lou was killed, Mister Mulligan, and at this point, I’m afraid I’ve got nothing left to give. I want to find my daughter. That’s all.” With that, she picks up her walking pace, when Hercules’ shins burn, trying to keep up.

“Marie Antoinette,” he begins. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“You didn’t mean to what?” She snaps, spinning on her heels to face him. “Insinuate that I don’t care about my daughter, just because I’m not all to pieces in front of you? I just lost my husband, and now I’ve lost my daughter. Is that not enough for you to understand that I’m all cried out? You’ll have to cry for me, I’m afraid I have no more tears.” Her accent gives her words another level of seriousness that he isn’t sure how to respond to.

“I lost my wife when my daughter was six months old,” he tells her simply, and he sees her entire demeanor melt. He sees that she physically regrets snapping at him. “I’ve been trying to do right by her ever since. My daughter is three now. Never knew her mother. Never asks about her. She knows she should have one, when she sees other kids with one. One day, she will ask about her, and I’ll have to tell her the whole story.” He cracks his knuckles, only to do something with his hands. “And, I couldn’t imagine losing her. I couldn’t imagine it. Trinity is all I have.”

“Is that your little girl?” She asks, sitting down on a park bench, next to Hercules.

“Yea. She’s the best thing to ever happen to me.” He feels tears coming. “We’ll find Charlie. I swear we will.”

* * *

 

At four o’ clock, Washington plans to meet Lafayette in the Soho Hotel basement again, in Brooklyn. The Frenchman had texted him with apparent ‘good news’ and wanted to show him something there. He’s feeling particularly confident that the capo has dazzled him with his excellent kidnapping skills, and has gotten the detective tying to frame the Syndicate.

 _And_ it isn’t Alex. Because Alex is sitting right next to him. He feels particularly lighthearted at this information, so Washington brought Alex along for the ride. Soho Hotel has nice rooms. Figured he could treat the kid to a night of luxury.

While George is driving, Hamilton texts Burr.

**A. Burr :/**

            gonna spend the night in bklyn

_Why? What are we gonna do w Charlie??_

I’m with my sorta-bf keepin a low profile

_Your “sorta-bf”. Right. Well, I’ll find something to do with her.  
you stay out of sight, Hamilton, alright?_

I will.  
            text me if ya need me

He sits back, confidently. This could all turn out alright. Sure, he doesn’t know where Hercules and Trinity are, but he rationalizes that Hercules has kept the both of them safe. He’s a crafty guy. He knows about the Syndicate and their ways, and he can stay under the radar pretty well. Hamilton knows, he’s done it before. So maybe he saw an opportunity to dip when Hamilton warned him. There would be no use being locked in the house if Lafayette knows where he lives, anyway.

“Alex,” George begins. “When we get to this hotel, there’s someone I want you to meet,”

Hamilton reclines his chair, sighs. “Oh yea? Who?”

“Good friend of mine. Really nice guy. I think you’ll love him.” He looks sincere. “We’ve known each other for years. He works for me.”

“In your business?” he keeps his eyes on the road. There’s something relaxing about driving with George.

“Yes. Very loyal employee. Just recently, he carried out an order I gave very, very well. I think he deserves the privilege of meeting you.” He glances at Hamilton. “What do you think?”

“I think we should do it,” he grins.

Once they reach the hotel, George grabs their bags from the trunk, with help from Hamilton, and carries them inside. The doorman gets them a cart, and George checks into the front desk, while Hamilton admires the large pillars with the lights hanging from them. It gives a nice copper glow, the ambience is soothing. But then he hears the faint music being played over the loudspeaker, and it sounds like jazz. Swing jazz. He freezes.

“Alexander,” he hears George’s voice, echoing in the large corridor. He turns to see a large man, walking beside George, looking at him with intent scrutiny. “This is the gentleman I’d wanted you to meet. Nathanael Greene. Longtime friend of mine.”

He and Hamilton shake hands, firmly, while exchanging quick, professional smiles.

“Nat, this is Alexander Hamilton,” he exchanges a look with Hamilton, and says, “My boyfriend.”

Hamilton blushes deeply, hearing George say the words. He hadn’t known they were boyfriends. Or, maybe he missed the memo.

Nat smiles at Hamilton warmly. “Ah, so you’re the lucky winner? Believe me, I’ve been trying for years.” Hamilton isn’t sure if he’s joking or not, but judging by the way both Nat and George laugh, he decides that he should laugh, too.

“Alex, love,” he places a heavy hand on Hamilton’s shoulder, and Hamilton melts into the touch. He loves that touch. “Here’s the room key. I have some business to take care of at the moment, but I want you to check into the room and relax. The doorman will bring our things up in a second. If you need anything, call room service. I’ll be up in about an hour.”

Nat leans in to whisper to George, and Hamilton just barely catches it, “Lafayette’s waiting, sir.” And they walk off, having bid pleasant goodbyes.

But Hamilton doesn’t move.

Because the name “Lafayette” makes his stomach sour and his head heavy.

Because Lafayette tried to kill him and Lafayette was his friend.

Because Lafayette is a snake.

But there are plenty of Lafayette’s, right?

He watches the two men leave and he feels faint, but a gloved white hand taps him on the shoulder, making him jump, but he finds that it’s only the doorman, gesturing to the elevator to escort him to his room with a warm smile.

Paranoia comes later.

When he’s alone in the hotel room, with his things and George’s, his mind begins to race.

What if George and Lafayette are working together? What if George ordered that assassination and Lafayette was the one to carry it out? What if Burr’s in on it? He can’t trust anyone. What about Hercules?

Fuck Hercules, Hercules doesn’t care about him. His head starts to spin.

No. No. No.

Not George. His George couldn’t betray him like this, George is his boyfriend.

George is just a normal guy with a kind smile.

Then again, it seems too good to be true.

Maybe it is.

He feels nauseous again.

* * *

 

Burr has decided to let Charlie stay in his home until further notice. She sleeps in the spare bedroom, as he sits at his computer, trying to follow a recipe to make sugar cookies—she said she’d wanted them. Her father always made them for her, and she misses him.

He figured that he could surprise her.

But also, he’d made some headway into finding Charlie’s mother. After some thought, the girl told him her mother’s name—Marie Antoinette. It was vaguely familiar to him, but he decides to look into her background later on, when Charlie is asleep for the night. He focuses on the cookies, for right now.

* * *

 

“I take it you have good news for me, Marquis?” Washington asks cheerily (or as cheerily as he can), as Greene shuts the heavy metal door behind him and flicks the lights on. Lafayette is sitting with a folder, a duffle bag, and a body bag.

Washington’s face falls. He doesn’t see a detective, but he sees a detective-shaped corpse bag. “What the _fuck_ is _this_?” he snarls.

Lafayette seems to shrink away from the venom leaking from the man’s voice. “It is the detective you were after, _monsieur_.”

Washington stares at Lafayette, and then back to the body bag. “And why is he _dead_?”

“He opened fire on my men, sir.” Lafayette folds his hands together. “He killed one.”

Washington’s eyes drop to the rings on his fingers as he adjusts them. “Alright. And what the fuck is that?” He gestures to the folder and duffle bag.

“ _C’est quoi_?” [3] He picks up the bag and unzips it. “His information.”

Washington stares at him, and finally sits down at the table, across from Lafayette.

“I’m going to ask you this, and I want you to think about this very _seriously_ before you try and answer, alright?” He folds his hands together on the table. “What the _fuck_ am I going to do with this?”

“ _Pardon_?”

“What am I going to do with,” he pulls out a stack of papers from his bag, rifling through them. “Report cards from 6th grade and screenshots of his dating profiles, Marquis de Lafayette? Is that going to help me fucking get the Syndicate out of Dante’s Inferno?”

“ _Mais non, monsieur_.” Suddenly, he’s embarrassed. He looks down at his hands.

“Is his fucking _3 rd grade _Valentines going to tell me what dirt he had on us? Is that going to tell me what he knew? What if Detective _Jaciem Burkhart_ knew something that he never documented, and you _killed_ him?” He reaches for his belt. “I should kill _you_.”

“ _Monsieur_ ,” Lafayette begins, hopping to his feet. Greene hasn’t moved. “We will find the information, I assure you. My men are in his apartment, right now. I have ordered my soldiers in the NYPD to find information on what he knew,”

Washington scowls. With one look at the body, he groans. “And get that fucking _corpse_ off of the table.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] “Adrienne, il est moi. Quel est la temps dans notre chèr France?” Adrienne, what time is it, in our dear France?  
> [2] “doudou” blankie/cuddly thing (term of endearment)  
> [3] “C’est quoi?” what’s this?
> 
> so, there's a lot going on right now, and everyone is everywhere & strangely connected in some sort of subliminal way with everyone else. But that's how I like it.  
> This mess will be cleaned up if the guys get their shit together tbh
> 
> :) drop a comment


	10. X

Marie Antoinette and Hercules Mulligan make for an odd pairing walking down the street together. He, with his grey beanie, oversized parka with a fur-lined hood, and heavy boots and her, with her big hair and flashy jewelry and nude nails. They get double takes from random strangers, but children just stare in confusion.

They look like an odd power couple out of a badass spy movie.

However, in reality, the two of them are just distraught widows seeking to save their children from the hell of the world they live in. (Even though a slow-mo montage of the two of them walking through Highland Park with badass music playing in the background would be severely appropriate, given the circumstances.)

“Who was Charlie last with?” Hercules asks, ignoring a small ankle biter dog yipping at him furiously from beside its disinterested owner on a park bench. “Was she at home, or school, or what?”

“She was with Axel. Sometimes, she would go with him, to stay for a weekend. Since Lou died, she’s been over there more often, just so that I know someone’s taking care of her. He’s like an uncle to her. He wasn’t answering his phone, and when I went to check—before I called Lafayette—his apartment was empty and Charlie was nowhere to be found.”

“So she’s with him, then,” Hercules frowns. He doesn’t like the sound of that. “We just have to track him down and we’ll find her. Does Axel have any psychotic issues?”

“Are you asking if Axel kidnapped my daughter?” she asks, seeming to have taken offense.

“I’m asking if he would have had a reason to.” He’s glad he has some experience as a detective, at this point. “Did the two of you have a fallout, or a disagreement?”

She sighs. “No. He just— _thinks_ Charlie is his kid.”

“The two of you had an affair.” It’s a statement, not a question. But it explains a lot. _A lot_.

“ _Years_ before Charlie was born. He thought we were meant to be together, but when Lou got suspicious, we squashed it.” She smacks her hands together and rubs them together for emphasis. “I thought he was over that notion. I told him Charlie wasn’t his, because I had her DNA tested when she was three.”

Hercules figures Axel isn’t as innocent as Marie Antoinette is letting on. “Come on.” He tells her, hailing a cab. “We’re going back to the station.”

* * *

 

Burr, unable to peel himself away, has abandoned the batch of sugar cookies waiting to be baked. He now pores over his laptop, researching anything that he remembers from the last few nights, in context to the Syndicate and the Jeffersons.

If Marie Antoinette is the widow of Louis Capet, and their daughter, Charlie, was with a man named Axel Fersen, something must have been awry in the Capet household.

He thinks it’s odd that Charlie would call her mother’s boyfriend her “father” and refer to her own father—her mother’s husband—as her mother’s boyfriend. He recalls her words, “‘ _I don’t know. She was sad that her boyfriend went away, and so daddy and mommy started fighting. Then me and daddy moved._ ’” She had it backwards.

He opens his search engine, begins to type in, _Marie Antoinette Axel Fersen_.

If what he’s thinking is correct, then sure enough, the two were lovers. Perhaps they still are.

But what about the Jeffersons? Was Fersen with them? Perhaps Lafayette recognized him?

He decides that it would probably be a better idea to wait on Hamilton to get back, but unfortunately, he doesn’t know when that will be.

* * *

 

In Brooklyn, Washington grumpily bids Greene goodbye, and makes his way back to the elevator. Washington’s security team had personally escorted the Frenchman out through the back, leaving Washington alone in his thoughts in the elevator.

He’s kind of glad he no longer has to deal with the detective, Burkhart, but whatever evidence he had is still out there. Maybe Alex knew him. Maybe Alex helped him. His teeth grate, but the elevator gently jolts, and the doors slide open.

He’s met with Alex, standing with his bags and suitcases, staring at Washington intently.

“Alex? Where are you going?”

“I need to go home.” He doesn’t look Washington in the eye, which makes Washington nervous.

“Is something wrong?”

“I got called in to the station.” It’s curt. It’s a lie.

“Well then at least let me drive you back home,” he tries to reason, only to see a look of alarm pass over Alex’s face. “Alexander, what _happened_?”

“Who’s Lafayette?” he finally asks, arm shooting out to catch the closing elevator door.

Washington’s brows furrow. “An employee.”

This doesn’t seem to quell the boy. It only seems to make him angrier. “What’s his _whole_ name?”

“Gilbert du Mortier,” he pauses. He’s missing something, but the guy’s name is so long, he can’t remember it. “Lafayette.”

He sees Alexander visibly relax, but he doesn’t let his guard down yet. “Was he wearing a cast?”

“What?”

“A neon orange cast on his wrist.”

“I don’t think so.” He was too busy cursing the guy and looking through all the birthday party invitations to mind a cast. “What’s this about?”

And then, after a moment of silence, Alex sighs. “Nothing. I’m sorry.”

“Still wanna go home?” Washington asks, stepping out of the elevator.

“No. I’m sorry. I, um,” he looks around. “Feel kind of dumb. A lot of shit has happened these last few days, you know? I guess I’m just paranoid.”

Washington shrugs, takes his bags for him, and walks back down to their room. “No, I get it. You always feel like someone’s watching. Have to keep checking over your shoulder.” He understands. It’s the life he lives, as a mob boss. He understands it’s the life Alexander lives, as a detective. Still an ironic love. A forbidden one, at that.

In the room, Alex sits on the bed and rolls his stiff neck. “I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

“No, I know,” he replies gently. “I know you’re stressed with your brother, and your niece, and work, and all that.” He doesn’t mind it. He knows how it goes.

Alex tries to make conversation normal, which Washington doesn’t mind, and says, “I can’t wait until it warms up. I can’t deal with this weather. It’s freezing year-round.”

“That’s an exaggeration,” Washington chuckles, setting Alex’s things down next to his. “Where are you from?”

“Well,” Alex takes a deep breath. “From this tiny island called St. Croix. Down there next to the Dominican Republic.”

“The Caribbean? That’s exciting.”

“Not exactly,” he shrugs. “We were dirt poor.”

Washington, who suddenly feels ridiculous, folds his lips. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“You’re fine. I get it all the time.” He watches Washington fold the clothes. “What about you? Where are you from?”

“Virginia,” he answers plainly. “This estate called Mount Vernon.”

“Estate?” Alex asks, curiously.

He shrugs. “My family was fairly affluent.”

Alex laughs. “You don’t have to feel uncomfortable, talking about being rich, George. I won’t hate you for it.” He rolls over on his back, and stares up at the ceiling. “And anyway, you’re not one of those snooty rich dudes who flaunt their money.”

“I’m not?” he asks, moving to hover over Alex, who is still staring at him, upside down. It’s a joke, but the kiss is sweet.

Alex flips over, onto his belly. “It looks easier on Spiderman. I don’t recommend it, though,” he admits with a grin, and kisses Washington again, deeper. In the privacy of their own hotel room, they exchange sweet kisses, while Washington climbs onto the bed, where Alex gets up to his knees, wrapping his arms around Washington’s neck.

He falls back when George moves, on top of him, rough, broad hands cradling his cheek. He opens his mouth, lets George kiss him as deeply as he wants, and he feels George’s other hand gripping his thigh. He sighs happily, and George chuckles, kissing him again, before sitting back on his knees. He takes his shirt off, stretching his arms over his head, and Hamilton can’t tear his eyes away from the sight in front of him.

He’s muscular, but not like a body builder. His biceps have shape, and his stomach is tight, but it’s not too much for Hamilton, which he thinks is perfect. He sits up, sucking a kiss into George’s neck, who huffs, grabbing Hamilton’s hair and kissing him again on the lips. His hands skim up the man’s chest, letting his warm hands roam over the heated skin, and he can feel George tremble under his touch.

He hums to himself. He’s doing something right.

Washington is a patient man, in general, but sex is a little bit different for him.

With sex, he’s fast paced and aggressive. He’s selfish and ruthless. But he has a feeling that’s something Alex is into.

He grabs him by the collar, pulls him into a deep, bruising kiss. He’s a good five inches taller than the boy, with a much heavier build, so it isn’t that easy to get him where he needs him to be. Alex has a slight, slender frame, with pretty features and delicate curves. Washington is rough and scarred and built like a bull. So, it’s an interesting dynamic when combined with Alex’s fiery personality.

Hands begin to skim, ghosting over Washington’s bulge in his jeans, rubbing him through the rough fabric, but before they get any further, Washington wants Alex out of his _clothes_.

“Take your shirt off,” he mumbles against Alex’s lips, twisting his large hand in the shiny black hair.

More than eager to comply, he pulls his shirt off as quickly as possible, letting Washington take in the sight.

Lightly tanned skin, a soft belly and a slight happy trail. Gorgeous. He kisses a path from Alex’s jaw, down to the hem of his jeans, where he teases the belt, making Alex whine impatiently. He slips him out of his jeans, but leaves him in his boxers as he gently kisses the hardening bulge through the thin fabric.

Alex slings an arm over his flushed face, other hand scrambling down to touch himself, where Washington swats his hand away.

“ _No_ touching yourself. Do you have any manners, Alexander?” It’s a growl, with something of a flirty undertone, one that makes Alex’s cock jump. He dips his hands into the boy’s boxers, loosely stroking him. He loves the high-pitched whine Alex rewards him with, and his pulls his boxers down, too, studies the way Alexander’s back arches when he kisses the underside of his cock.

“More, George,” he bleats desperately. “M-more, please,”

Washington licks, with the flat of his tongue, up to the tip of Alex’s head, and takes him down in one smooth motion, which earns him thighs and shins locked around his neck, and Alex chanting his name like a prayer.

“Move your arm,” he instructs. “Let me see those eyes.” And he sees they’re wet with tears, pleading, and dark with want. It’s enough to make Washington sob in admiration for this man’s statuesque beauty. But he doesn’t sob, because his erection is throbbing in his jeans and his head is still bobbing, and Alex’s legs tighten, and he can’t stop the boy from coming.

He squeals when he comes, and it catches Washington slightly off-guard, but he thinks it’s cute, when Alex hides his red face in embarrassment. He’d swallowed every last drop, and that only seems to embarrass Alex further.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, from the safety of his hands. “I got excited.”

Washington laughs as he wipes his mouth. It’s a genuine one, and Alex peeks in-between his fingers, just to see the man so amused at his own expense. “Don’t worry,” Washington kisses his thigh. “We’ve still got all night.”

* * *

 

“This is load of the bullshit,” Lafayette spits, stirring his tea. Sitting across from him is his fellow capo, John Laurens, whose current order from the General is to be conducting his army in smuggling cocaine from Peru into US borders. He’s doing fairly well at it, and is confused to see the distraught Frenchman, with a few strands of grey hair, so avidly muttering in French.

John is always buzzed. He can never be found sober, and at the fragile age of 22, it’s obvious that he’s had too much freedom as a child, or not enough. It’s hard to tell the difference. “I thought you got the kid killed,” he replies apathetically.

“I _try_ to kill him, _mon ami_. Three times!”

John shrugs. “Didn’t work, apparently.”

“I _know_ it did not work, _Jean_ ,” Lafayette groans. “That much is evident, _non_? But _le général_ will not allow me to rest until every piece of evidence is found and he can confidently tell the Commission that it is all taken care of!”

“And when’ll that be?” He looks up from his phone. The diner is mostly empty, and as the sun goes down, the temperature drops with it.

“When I have that Hamilton’s head on a fucking _platter_.” Lafayette slumps back in his seat. “I no longer have the patience nor mercy to deal.”

“Instead of killin’ him,” John sits forward, lowers his voice. “Just make ‘im talk.” His ‘talk’ sounds like ‘towk’. “Give up whateva else he coulda found while investigatin’. Killin’ him is counterproductive.”

“That is what the General told me,” the Frenchman sighs. John has a relatively cool head. In fact, so does Lafayette, usually. But he’s sure if the shoe were on the other foot, he would be cool and calm while John planned for his doom. “But I already lied and I give him the man that I killed while hunting Hamilton.”

John sighs. “You’re gettin’ yaself into a bigga mess by lyin’ to him, Laf.” There’s pity in his voice, slathered in that Brooklyn accent. “When G-Wash puts a hit out on’a guy, you just gotta take ‘em down. First chance ya get. He’s happier that way; and if he’s happy, you’re happy.” The General is a reasonable guy, but if he’s angry, he’s nasty. It’s better to stay out of his way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS THE PART WHERE JOHN LAURENS ENTERS THE STORY PERMANENTLY. From this point, he will be a major character, for all the JLau fans out there.   
> >>The whole "Brooklyn Accent" thing is a ref to Ramos, who is from Brooklyn and typically has a Brooklyn accent. 
> 
> For some odd reason, this update took me 9 hours to write, even though I started a small portion of it yesterday?? 
> 
> Shouts out to Terra for assisting me/practically writing Lafayette's French & proofing me on my French grammar throughout Smoke Break & basically schooling me 5ever :0 she's great, show her some love. 
> 
> as usual, ily all & I will see you guys when I see you guys <3


	11. Famous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I rarely put notes in the beginning of chapters, but it is very important that you keep this in mind:
> 
> the scenes of this chapter take place simultaneously. This is essential to understanding the whole thing. They're overlapping, and occurring at the same time, unless there is a time difference, in which I would urge you to pay close attention.  
> Even though time doesn't exist. 
> 
> Now, enjoy. ❤

Hercules and Antoinette arrive at the home of Aaron Burr at 8:34pm exactly, seeking his advanced detecting skills. Next to Hamilton (but not in any particular order), Burr is one of the most renowned detectives in the force. Hercules has heard the guy is a bit of a prune, though. When he got to the station, a few undercover-Syndicate detectives recommended Burr, as a means to alleviate the tension between Hercules and Lafayette.

Burr has one of the sharpest minds.

They all wondered where Hamilton was, though. In fact, as did Hercules. Alex hadn’t been answering his texts or phone calls, and his mind jumped to the worst case scenario (Lafayette), but he decided, among all the guilt and concern that Alex’s life was a better trade than his daughter’s.

The thought was enough to make his stomach sink with guilt.

He and Marie Antoinette step out of the taxi, having tipped the driver largely, and walk up the pretty path to Burr’s home. It’s a large, brick building with double doors and concrete steps with guard rails. Hercules stands, with the widow behind him, and knocks heavily on Burr’s door.

That is, if he has the right address, and the guys weren’t just fucking with him.

But one door swings open, and a small, Black man in a grey turtleneck stares at him. His smile is absent, as he studies the pair, but his eyes are heavy on Marie Antoinette, like he recognizes her. He looks to Hercules, and in an instant, he’s smiling a polite, charming smile.

“Hello. Can I help you with something?”

“Yea, uh,” Hercules reaches into his coat pocket, shows his badge. “Are you Aaron Burr, sir?”

The man, whose smile softens for a second, and then twists into a slight frown, crosses his arms and leans on his doorframe. “I’m sorry. Who’s asking?”

“Detective Hercules Mulligan. I’d like to ask you a few questions, Detective.”

 

The trio ends up sitting in Burr’s dining room, watching Marie Antoinette sob hysterically, holding her daughter, who is crying just as much. The mother and daughter had ended up together after the two men had squashed the holier-than-thou bullshit. Burr was occupying Charlie, who’d gotten to the neglected cookie batter, and Hercules was glad to see that it was easier than he thought it’d be.

“Where’s Axel?” Marie asks, cradling her daughter into the hug. Despite her crying, he makeup doesn’t run. Pretty expensive makeup, Burr observes.

“Fersen?” He looks back to Hercules. “That’s a conversation we’re going to have to have without Charlie present.”

“What? Why?” Marie demands, frantically looking back and forth between Burr and Hercules. “Who are you?”

 

When Marie can finally separate herself from Charlie, without the two of them nearly having panic attacks, Burr sits her down at the dining room table, while Charlie plays in her room. He isn’t sure what to say about Axel, because truthfully, he wasn’t even there when it happened, but he heard the events, and he knows what Alex told him. He tries his best, with Mulligan sitting across from him, next to Marie.

“Her father is dead.”

“I know that,” Marie sneers. “What about _Axel_?”

Burr stares at her. “That’s who I’m referring to, yes. He was shot outside of his apartment on Saturday night. I’m sorry for your loss.”

Marie’s jaw tightens. Her eyelashes flutter, and her pale cheeks flush red. He can see the tears coming on, and she has to control herself not to burst into tears.

Mulligan clears his throat. “Detective Burr, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but don’t you think it’s a little disrespectful to say something like that?”

“Your daughter was calling the man ‘daddy.’ I’m assuming the _seven_ year old knows who her father is?” Burr tilts his head. “Unless you lied to all three of them. The former _Commissioner_ among them.”

She folds her lips, having a stare down with Burr. Her tears of despair have turned into tears of anger. “What do you know about my _family_? You don’t even have one!”

Burr’s pleasant smile, over the course of the evening, had shifted from a smile, to a false smile, and now to a forced one. “I’m only doing my job, miss.”

She raises her shoulders in a half-shrug. She wipes her face with the provided tissue, wiping at an angle, as to not smear her makeup. “And I’m doing mine, honey.” She stands. “Now are you detaining me, or am I free to go?”

Burr stands, with her. “I’ll show you to the door.”

Marie calls Charlie, to leave, and before she does, she turns to Hercules and pulls him into a hug. “Thank you, so much, Mister Mulligan. I knew you could do it, sugar pie.” He isn’t sure what exactly a “sugar pie” is, but it doesn’t sound good. Her accent is nice, though. “I’ll be sure to tell Lafayette how efficient you were, so that you keep your eyeballs and your toes.” She smiles sadly, and Hercules feels his heart swell.

A happy ending for a good lady.

Or, an almost happy ending, considering the circumstances.

Fuck, Hercules is always considering the circumstances.

She leaves, and Hercules watches her, but he’s distracted by Burr, who is watching him. “She’s going to tell who, what?”

“A friend of mine made a bet,” Hercules says plainly. “What’s it to you?”

Burr doesn’t say anything.

“Aren’t you Alex’s new partner?” Hercules asks suddenly. “Where is he?”

“With his boyfriend,” is all Burr responds with. If he remembers correctly, Hamilton said the guy after him was named Lafayette. And Lafayette killed Fersen.

His eyes snap to Hercules.

Lafayette is in the Syndicate, no doubt about it. The discussion between Marie and Hercules was one of the ‘I’ll tell your boss not to beat your ass’ conversations.

But if Lafayette is Hercules’ boss, then that means…

He invites him to sit.

“Let’s talk, Detective Mulligan.”

* * *

 

[REWIND]

It’s 8:00pm, and Hamilton knows this because he has an alarm that goes off for him to take his blood pressure medication at 7:00. He doesn’t want to skip it, so he pauses and searches around in his bag for it.

“You have high blood pressure?” George asks groggily from the bed.

“I do. Runs in the family.” He swallows the pills with a swig of water. Sighs. “Anyway, where were we?” George chuckles, sitting up. His eyes are glazed, and he looks content. Hamilton smiles, and says, “You’re handsome.”

His lover rubs his eyes, and blinks a few times. And then his laugh, sonorous and warm, fills Hamilton’s ears like sweet honey. It reminds him of taking a hot shower after a long, stressful day. Just curling into the hot water and the steam; wanting it to hold him. His gaze drifts back to George.

“Come here,” the man instructs, gesturing Hamilton over with the wave of his hand. And when he opens his arms, Hamilton cuddles into his chest, molded to fit exactly where need be. He closes his eyes, breathes in George’s scent, realizes that this was all he ever wanted. Or needed. Probably both.

“When’s your birthday?” George asks, playing in Hamilton’s hair. His large fingers gently twist the loose waves around, as Hamilton simply adores the attention.

“It was January 11th.” There’s a bad taste in his mouth when he realizes the Commissioner died, just ten days later. He tries to ignore that, and focus on George. “I’m a Capricorn.”

“You sound proud,” George chuckles. “Too bad I missed your birthday.”

Hamilton closes his eyes, feeling himself finally be able to fall asleep, after all the chaos of last night. “When’s yours?”

“February 22nd,” George replies, with a yawn of his own. His large chest rises and falls, and Hamilton turns to look up at him, in the eye.

“Do you know what animal you remind me of, George?” It’s a weird question, but George doesn’t stop playing in his hair as he hums a small,

“Hmmm?”

“A tiger.”

“A tiger?”

“Yes. I read somewhere once that tigers have incredible personal strength and courage, more than lions do. To me, lions represent leaders and pride, but tigers represent danger and passion.” He pauses, searches George’s eyes, who seems amused. “Lions are kings of the earthly realm. Tigers are something of a spiritual enigma,”

“You think I’m dangerous?” he asks curiously.

“I think you could be.” It’s an honest answer.

“I thought you would compare me to a bear,” George says, stretching.

Hamilton laughs. “No, I’m terrified of bears.”

“What! They’re probably my favorite animals,” George looks thoughtful. “Growing up in Mount Vernon, I was around a lot of farm animals, and deer, and birds. Rabbits, stuff like that. I was fond of them. But I loved my dogs more. And they weren’t hunting dogs, but they loved to chase the rabbits and bring me back dead birds. My mother hated it,” he laughs, and Hamilton laughs, too. “She’d always go, ‘George Washington! If I find one more dead bird under the couch, you and your dogs are sleeping outside!’ She was furious.

“So, one day, I took them out—they were hounds, mostly because I thought they were beautiful—and we were walking through the woods. And through all the trees,” he says, spreading his hands, to set the scene, which Hamilton is engrossed in. “There was this huge, black bear…standing up on its haunches, looking at me. And I froze, because what’s a twelve year old going to do, in the face of death, in the form of a bear?” He laughs. “I turned around and ran home so fast, my mother thought the world was ending. I was _terrified_ and my father was trying to tell that bears don’t live in ‘that part of Virginia.’ But it _was_ a bear, if I’ve ever seen one.”

Hamilton’s grinning. He even tells stories like a dad. It’s endearing. He wants more dad stories in the future. “If bears don’t live in that part of Virginia, I don’t think you saw a bear, George.”

“ _No_. It _was_ a bear, are you kidding me?” He pecks Hamilton on the forehead with a sweet kiss. “Now how about a round two?”

Hamilton, already on top of George, moves to straddle his hips, returning George’s kiss with his own. “Alright. I promise I won’t come in, like, three seconds this time.” They share a good-natured laugh, exchanging quiet jokes and kisses, relishing the privacy. Hamilton massages the forming hardness underneath the fabric of George’s grey boxers, kissing the man slowly, while large hands skim up his back, and cradle the nape of his neck.

George’s moans are deep and breathy, encouraging Hamilton to keep going. His lips find Hamilton’s and he kisses down his neck while Hamilton’s hands work the stiffened cock, pressing against the boxers. He moves so that his bare ass is perched on top of George’s still-clothed erection, grinding back onto it while giving George his best bedroom eyes.

“Alexander,” he breathes. “There are condoms in the nightstand,”

Those words make his heart hammer, and he reaches over, finds a bottle of lube and a box of condoms, as promised. Looks like George planned for the night. He bites his lip to keep from grinning, but that earns him a rough buck of the hips from George, who is getting impatient.

He tears off the condom, and rolls it down George’s shaft with delicacy. He can’t take his eyes off the thick length. His mouth is watering, and he knows he must be staring for too long, because George lets out an impatient groan, mumbling, “Alex…”

So then, he slicks George up with lube, stroking him to get the slippery, wet sound that he secretly loves. He kisses a trail up George’s tight stomach, to his collar bones, sucking a hickey there, and meeting George’s dark eyes. He feels George’s large hands drift to his waist, and he slicks his fingers up with lube for him, before he feels one of those brilliant fingers teasing his hole. He grips George’s shoulders when he gently slides one in, and when he begins to move, Hamilton is painfully hard.

By the second finger, George has begun to scissor him, and he’s gaping at the stretch. By the third finger, he’s trying not to come on George’s stomach, but George muttering in his ear, and the bruises he’s probably going to have on his hips, and the stretch from George is too much to handle.

“Ready?” he mumbles, kissing at Hamilton’s jaw. His fingers leave, and impatiently, Hamilton perks his ass up, earning a hard smack on it, from an eager George. Hamilton can tell he’s staring, so he dips his back to present his ass higher. George grins a devious grin.

“You want me to fuck you?” It’s a growl, from the bottom of his chest; Hamilton shivers. He feels George’s slippery cock sliding between his cheeks, anticipating an answer.

“Yes, sir,” he breathes. “Please,”

And then he feels the head press against his hole, and George’s hands tightly gripping his waist. He slides down, slowly, and it’s heaven. They both gasp, and Hamilton’s hands scramble for leverage while George’s hands spread Hamilton’s cheeks. Hamilton slowly slides up and down on the shaft, his thighs burning at the strain. He ignores it and tilts his head back so that George can kiss his neck.

He feels George buck up, into him, because Hamilton isn’t going fast enough, but it hits deep and he keens a high whine, digging his nails into George’s skin.

“Do that again,” he whimpers, and George does, laying back to have a better angle. Hamilton follows, letting George pound into him while forcing his hips down. The moment becomes too much, and Hamilton’s vision blurs when George hits his prostate, muttering,

“Come on, Alexander. Come on,” a heavy hand landing a blow on his ass. Hamilton shrieks, and George yanks his hair back, to expose that sweet throat. He repeats himself, “C’mon, Alexander.”

His moans become desperate and needy, and he feels tears streaking his cheeks when George skims his hands down Hamilton’s back. “George,” he breathes. “DeeperdeeperdeeperfasterGeorgemakemecomemakemecome,” The stretch is unreal, and the obscene sound of skin slapping skin makes him go dizzy. George is what grounds him. That scent is something he’ll never forget. He’s close. He figures, somewhere in the back of his mind, that George should have a heads up this time. “I’m coming, I’m coming, fuck! _George_!”

His vision is white, and he comes a lot faster than he thought he would have, but with George inside him and underneath him, and all around him, he doesn’t mind. George isn’t far behind him, and he comes, in the condom, inside Hamilton, with a strained grunt and a few more thrusts for good measure.

They pant, sweaty and exhausted, as Hamilton moves off of George, to get to the bathroom and clean himself up, while George runs a shower. He’s grinning and the flush to his face in the mirror is a godsend. This winter always has him looking pale and dead inside. He checks his watch—8:23pm. He glances back at George, who is standing naked, with his back to Hamilton, folding his towel before stepping into the shower.

Nice back. Cute butt.

George is the whole package, he muses following him into the shower.

* * *

 

[FORWARD]

It’s 8:40pm, and Lafayette and John are still sitting at the diner, while Lafayette drinks his tea, and John smiles at his phone, doing God knows what. Anyone could probably guess, given the look on his face. Is there ever a moment where the kid isn’t involved in something sex-related? Lafayette is staring at the hotel double doors, across the street. The Soho Grand Hotel is not one of his favorite places. It usually indicates when Lafayette will be cursed out or threatened by the unsatisfied General, which frightens the Frenchman considerably.

John looks up from his phone. “You ready to go, chief?”

Taking his tea to go, he nods and presses his fingers to the hot paper cup, and follows John out of the door, but remembers he hasn’t paid for their meals. “You go, _Jean_ , and I will catch up,” he mumbles.  

Popping his collar, shrugging, and leaving as told, the freckled mobster glances across the street, and finds the General leaving the hotel with his bags, talking to a familiar boy. He can’t place where he’s seen him before, but as they near the General’s Mercedes, the boy catches John’s eye. He’s cute. John is prepared to keep walking, but suddenly, the guy shouts,

“STOP. POLICE.”

Oh. Shit.

Not knowing what to do, he sees the guy bolting for him, across the street, running in front of halting cars, horns blaring. John takes off, dropping his croissant (that Lafayette has graciously paid for) and bolts down the street, dodging people and poles. He doesn’t bother to look behind him, but he hears the guy shouting the police thing again, _like he’s actually going to stop running_.

Lafayette has come to the window of the café, seeing Hamilton chasing John, and he’s prepared to vehemently smash his skull open on the pavement, in broad daylight, but he’s stopped in his tracks by the General following him, yelling, “Alex!”

He freezes, stares at the General, but moves beside the window, with his back pressed against the wall, so that he won’t be seen.

Was the General with _Hamilton_?

His heart is hammering, and he’s not even running.

This is bad.

This is really bad.

* * *

 

Hercules hadn’t remembered Alex getting a boyfriend. He must be new. “What’s his name?”

Burr narrows his eyes. “I don’t know. But why don’t you explain why you report to _Lafayette_?”

“I don’t know a Lafayette,” Hercules replies dryly. “Have you met his boyfriend?”

“I have not,” Burr snaps. “Then why was Miss Marie going to ‘tell Lafayette’ x, y, and z?”

“Have you ever seen them together?”

“ _Why_ are you so concerned?” Burr demands, and they’re both interrupted by Hercules’ phone ringing, on the table.

It’s Lafayette calling.

Burr scowls and Hercules gives him a sheepish shrug.

He slides to answer, but before he can say anything, Lafayette’s screaming through the receiver,

“ _HAMILTON EES WITH LE GÉNÉRAL!_ _AND HE CHASES JEAN THROUGH THE STREETS OF BROOKLYN_.”

“What?” Hercules’ heart is about to explode. Dear God.

“ _THE BOTH OF THEM WERE IN A HOTEL AND HAMILTON SEES JEAN AND CHASES HIM AND LE GÉNÉRAL CHASES HAMILTON AND HE CALL HIM ‘ALEX’ AND HAMILTON HAS GOTTEN TO OUR LEADER, HERCULE! WE ARE DONE FOR! HE WILL BE KILL AND AS WILL I!_ ”

“Slow down,” Hercules frowns, making a motion for Burr to stay quiet. “You said Alex is with the General?”

“ _Oui_. They came out of Soho Hotel together! Hercules? You hear me?” His breathing is labored, like he’s in the process of dying. No doubt, his hair will be very grey after this.

“Yes, I’m listening,” Hercules mutters. If he told Burr he was with his ‘boyfriend’ and Lafayette saw them come out of the hotel together…

That means he’s a detective dating the mob boss of the Washington Syndicate.

Holy shit.

Alexander Hamilton is fucking George Washington.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, guys, I've been updating every day for the past week (sometimes even twice a day!). This is really new to me bc I'm usually rEALLY BAD at keeping up with updating, but I've been on it so much, writing for you guys (who leave very, very sweet comments :') ) because you inspire me to keep the story going!
> 
> Thank you to my loyal readers, subscribers, commentators, and support team. I really could not be doing any of this without you! I get up everyday at 8am, and try to have a new chapter out by 8pm, so that my readers can have something to look forward to! 
> 
> Please leave a comment below, as support or indicating which pairing you'd like to see next (this will be the only time I do this) and on the next chapter, I will tally the results up and share them & start to plan a new fic ❤
> 
> thank you for reading, and if you made it to the end, reading my rambling, I really appreciate you. I'm sending my good vibes your way :')


	12. Low Lights

“Yo man, what the _fuck_ are you doin’?” Laurens demands as Hamilton stares up at him. They’re both out of breath, chests aching, with their saliva thick in their mouths. “I ain’t done nothin’ wrong!”

Hamilton doesn’t have a good excuse for chasing Laurens. That much is evident. But Laurens is in the Syndicate, and maybe if he can get him to give up Lafayette, he can figure out who wanted to kill him, in the first place. They’re probably the ones who killed Capet. That’s Hamilton’s faulty logic.

“Listen, guy,” Hamilton yells up at the building. Laurens had gotten to the rooftop in less than 5 seconds, but Hamilton doesn’t see how. It’s a strictly vertical building, with no footholes or cheap starts. He’s pacing in front of the alley like a cat awaiting a mouse. He isn’t taking his eyes off the capo while he schemes how to get to him. “I’ve been through a _shit storm_ of bullshit, these last few days. I know it had something to do with either you, or your boss.”

“I don’ know what the hell y’a talkin’ about!” His accent elongates the words, so that he sounds whiner than he is. He pronounces it like, ‘tawkin abaah,’ which annoys Hamilton, because he probably does, in fact, know what the hell he’s _tawkin_ _abaah_.

“Oh, really? Then how do you explain your connection with Laf—” he’s interrupted by George’s voice, calling to him from the sidewalk, and he turns, meeting George’s angry eyes, but realizes—

Yep.

He turns back, and Laurens is long gone.

“Shit!” He stamps his foot, and turns back to George. “He’s fucking _gone_ , George. Are you happy?”

“Alex, what the fuck is wrong with you?” George demands, marching up to him. “Are you fucking _insane_? You don’t run into traffic like a fucking idiot in _New York_!”

“Well, it’s a good thing I’m an insane fucking idiot,” Hamilton yells back. “And not a pretentious fucking _asshole_. I was doing my _job_ , okay? And you just let him get away!”

“Oh, so it’s your _job_ to chase random strangers on the street?” George growls, pointing at the roof. “That’s your job? You could have gotten _hurt_ , Alexander. You didn’t have your badge or your gun, or your handcuffs. You know what could have happened? You could have gotten hit by a car, shot, injured, trampled—are you even _listening_ to me right now?”

“No, I’m fucking _not_ , George, because you know what?” He feels tears in his eyes, screaming at George like this. “I almost died yesterday. I saw one of my best friends march up to my front door with an _assault_ rifle with intentions of killing me. I saw him shoot down an innocent man in cold blood. I saw a girl lose her father. I let my best friend and his daughter get killed. I was chased from my _home_ by men trying to kill me with a girl _I am now responsible for_. I thought _you_ were trying to kill me. I can’t eat without thinking it’s poisoned; I can’t sleep without thinking someone’s watching me, I can’t breathe without thinking someone’s hunting me—and I saw an opportunity to end all that—” his voice breaks, and the tears fall. “And you don’t _know_ everything!” He wipes his face, but the tears still fall. “Your knock-knock joke wasn’t funny, and you didn’t see a _bear_ because there aren’t bears in Virginia!” He’s a sobbing mess now, back against the brick wall as he slides down, until he’s sitting on the dirty concrete, crying into his hands. His shoulders shake violently as he bawls, raking his hands through his hair, covering his face. He’s still trying to talk, but his words are choked up, and he can’t look up at George. He doesn’t want to. He immediately regrets ever opening his mouth, because he always fucks up his relationships with arguments. He didn’t mean to say that.

That knock-knock joke was pretty funny.

He feels presence beside him, and then he feels arms around him, pulling him into a hug. He opens his eyes, and finds that he’s on the ground, in George’s strong arms, being kissed on the head repeatedly.

“You should get up,” Hamilton sniffles. “Your pants are gonna get dirty.” He wishes he could apologize to Hercules for slapping him and getting him killed. He wishes he could apologize to Burr for being such an asshole on the first day, making him do _their_ job on his own, and leaving him with Charlie, on his own. He’s such an asshole.

Such a fucking asshole.

He was wrong.

He’s an idiot and an asshole.

He cries harder, while trying to swallow his whines when his body wracks.

He feels George move to pull his hair from his face, and the man says, “I’m sorry, Alex. I didn’t mean to—you just scared me. You could have died.”

“I’m almost always almost-dying. It’s become a bad habit.”

Washington doesn’t answer, because he’s staring at the wall in front of them. He feels his shirt being dampened by Alex’s tears and saliva, but he doesn’t dare move. He’s frozen with shock.

If this is all making sense, then this means Alex was once friends with Lafayette—which would probably be why he freaked out so much when he heard the Frenchman’s name. But Lafayette was supposed to be hunting down the offending detective—which he did. Which is why he brought Jaciem Burkhart—

Shit.

That must be the random guy he killed.

“Alexander?”

“Yea?”

“Is there a detective in the NYPD named Jaciem Burkhart?”

“I’ve never heard of him.”

Fucking hell. The lying bastard.

But that must mean that Alex is who he was after—and that means Washington is dating the literal enemy.

Holy fucking hell.

He closes his eyes.

“Alexander?”

“Yea?”

“Everything’s gonna be fine.”

* * *

 

“What do you know about the Jeffersons?” Burr asks from his computer desk. Hercules is sitting on his kitchen island, peeling an orange.

“Are you asking me as a detective, or as a mobster?” He looks up curiously.

“I’m asking,” he shrugs. “That’s it.”

“Then not much,” Hercules admits. “I mean, I know a few of his capos, but that’s just because I met them, with my boss. Don’t know ‘em personally, or anything.”

“And you’re an associate?” Burr spins idly in his chair.

“I’m a soldier.” He figures it’s no harm in telling Burr. He has to kill him, anyway. He knows too much.

“Alright. Do you know who the boss is?”

“There’s two. They’re married.” Hercules pops an orange wedge into his mouth. “They rule that regime together, in Staten Island.”

Burr stares at him, swivels his chair, and then sighs. Two bosses? Good god, it just keeps getting better and better. “Who are they?”

* * *

 

“FUCK YOU, THOMAS.”

“Jim, I honestly thought the windows were closed.” Thomas coos, rubbing his eyes as he rolls over. His wild afro is tangled from their shared night in bed, and he doesn’t bother to comb it out yet. He just turns over, and watches his husband frantically move furniture, clicking his tongue.

“No,” James spins on his heel. “ _You knew Putty would try to get out_.” He shoves the window open, calls, with an oddly falsetto voice, “Putty! Here, kitty, kitty, kitty!”

“She’s deaf, James, she can’t hear you.”

“I know, _Thomas_ , but sometimes, people aren’t assholes, and they actually care about something, other than themselves,” James frowns, glaring over his shoulder. He turns, goes back to calling for the cat, before he’s nailed in the head with a pillow, courtesy of Thomas.

“That’s for calling me an asshole.”

“I never called you an _asshole_ ,” James growls, snatching the pillow up, and leaving to look for the cat elsewhere, muttering under his breath.

Thomas rolls over, scoops his phone up, and checks his messages.

 

**J. Monroe  
** _the fucker didn’t even pay for it._

**Charles Lee (a general WEEEEE)**  
_can’t tell them shit lmao  
anyway gn _

**mama** **❤  
** _make sure you send pictures, Tommy xox_

Very quickly, he sends his mother a good morning text before rolling out of bed and slinging the curtains open.

The sunlight makes him feel renewed as he stretches his arms over his head. 

“Can you stop fucking smiling at the sun and put some goddamn clothes on?” He hears James grumble from the doorway. “We have a meeting to go to.”

He walks in, holding the floppy cat in one arm, with its hind legs dangling from its long body, tail coiled abnormally for a cat. Her pink-tan fur and slinky body earned her the name Putty, from a smitten James Madison, two years ago.

Thomas still can’t stand the cat.

Every night, he prays she sneaks out of the window and gets eaten by a giant lobster, or something. Thomas hates lobsters. And cats.

“Is it with Commission?” Thomas asks, absently, still thinking about lobsters. He shudders, and moves to his closet.

“No. That’s tomorrow.” Unfortunately, it’s Monday. Monday mornings aren’t James’ cup of tea, but Thomas is a morning person, all week long.

When James is still shuffling around, bleary eyed in his robe, Thomas is bouncing off the walls in his suits, singing passionately.

And that’s _before_ he has his coffee.

Today, he decides to sing Amy Winehouse while he showers, dresses, and makes breakfast. Fortunately for James, Thomas has a golden voice. He’s halfway through _Valery_ when they’re leaving, James with his coffee, and Thomas with his English muffin.

“Don’t see how you can eat that shit,” he mutters around his bagel, steering the white Porsche out of their driveway, past the sliding gates. Thomas admires the annual flowers in their garden. James likes to garden, and Thomas likes to do kickboxing. It’s a fairly simple lifestyle for the two of them. A match made in heaven.

Or, more like a match made in hell.

Thomas, humming to himself, turns on the radio, listening to the weather forecast for the day. It’s another mild day, and forecasters are expressing their concern, to which James mumbles,

“It’s the global warming.”

“The globe’s temperature fluctuates, James. Just like your pissy moods.” He takes another bite of his English muffin, and laughs when James grunts. Can’t argue with facts.

“All I’m saying is that everything has a butterfly effect.” He sips the scalding coffee at a stoplight and grimaces. “Did you put sugar in mine?”

“Yea,” Thomas glances at the _WORLD’S 2 ND BEST HUSBAND _mug and snickers. He had gotten himself the matching #1 mug. “Why, is it not sweet?”

“You put maybe a dash of sugar in my coffee, Tom,” James frowns. “That’s why I don’t let you make my coffee.”

“It’s going to be a great day,” Thomas grins. “Nice and warm; and after this meeting, we can go see that new movie about the penguins,”

“That movie isn’t new, man,” James responds, with an odd glance at his partner. “It came out in October.”

“Same difference,” they drive along, idly, discussing whatever nonsense that floats by and catches their interest. James, with his unsweetened coffee, and Thomas with his wild afro, flapping in the breeze.

When they get to the executive building, Thomas straightens James’ tie, whilst he tries to finish his coffee. It’s a ritual they’ve settled into, over the last decade, or so.

“This is fucking disgusting,” James groans. “I don’t see how you drink your coffee black.”

“Then don’t drink it,” Thomas advises.

“I have to fucking _drink_ it, do you know who we’re dealing with? I need as much caffeine as I can get.”

“Then shut up about it,” Thomas whispers, turning to enter the building with James, who is vaguely annoyed.

Fucking James is always vaguely annoyed.

 

Upon entering the building, Thomas’ first realization is that they redid the wallpaper, since the last time he’d been there. It’s a pale coral now, instead of the powder blue it once was. The pink makes him feel like he’s in a Pepto Bismol commercial. He’ll be sure to tell someone to change it back.

They greet the lobbyman politely, and head to the glass elevator, just down the hall. When they step out, they walk briskly down the hall together, whispering back and forth, and when they’re at the right door, Thomas knocks heartily.

The meeting is one that they have once a month, before the meeting with Commission—their “Congress.” Thomas doesn’t mind the meetings, but for some reason, James can’t stand them, and doesn’t say much during them. Actually, James never says much of anything. Unless it is to his husband. But he does almost everything, like a consigliere should. Madison is the consig and co-boss, whose mind attracted a curious Thomas.

They’ve been together ever since.

“James?”

His thoughts are interrupted. “Huh?”

“Does that sound good to you?” It’s Thomas asking, regarding him with a solid eye. “If we pushed back the arms shipment until May?”

He thinks for a moment, and then says, “As long as it doesn’t interfere with the OPEC registration.”

“It won’t,” he flashes his teeth in a smile at James, and then turns back to the council member. “Alright, sir. It’s done.”

* * *

 

Washington and Alex are sitting in Washington’s car, eating burgers from Mack’s Burger Joint, during Alex’s lunch break. They’re huge, and a mutual favorite of the two.

“Oh,” the man sits forward, at the steering wheel. “I have a meeting out of town tomorrow. I’ll be leaving at 10 tonight. It’s in Philly. I probably won’t be back until Thursday night, or Friday morning.”

“Wow,” Alex glances at Washington oddly. “That’s exciting.”

“You wanna come?” He offers, before taking another bite, and scanning the street.

“I gotta work. This case won’t close itself,” he laughs. “I’d love to, though. I remember I went to Philly once, because my girlfriend, at the time, invited me to her sister’s wedding.”

“And how’d that go?”

“Made out with the maid of honor,” Alex chuckles absently. “We’re still friends. Maria Reynolds.”

Washington chuckles, too. “In any event, I’ll be out of town again. But if things go as planned, you and I can go back to Mount Vernon for my birthday, next month. I’d love to show you the place.”

“I’d like that,” Alex says thoughtfully. He checks the time, and jumps. “Shit, I gotta be back in, in like five minutes, George.” With that, he pecks Washington on the cheek, and leaves.

Washington is watching him walk away, mesmerized by how cute he is when he’s speed-walking, trying not to sprint. His phone buzzes, and he’s met with:

 

**Jefferson  
** _can’t wait to see ya tomorrow :0_

I can.

_Rude. Anyway, gl_

 

He puts his phone away, and sighs. Now that he actually _knows_ Alex is the detective he’s after, things are going to get a bit tricky. He decides to call his advisor, and friend, Friedrich Von Steuben.

He’s a lawyer, of sorts, in the mafia world.

“George?”

“Friedrich. I need your expertise.”

He hears him chuckle. “Always a pleasure. How can I help?”

“I may have gotten myself into a bit of a mess. Um, what’s the rule about law enforcement in the Syndicate?”

“Unless it serves as a purpose of intel, it’s punishable by death.” He pauses. “Why do you ask?”

“I may have accidentally started dating a detective.” He’s blunt. No reason in beating around the bush. Von Stueben is the last person he should lie to. “And I guess, he doesn’t know I’m the don of the Syndicate.”

“Is it serious?”

“It’s getting pretty serious, yea. We’ve already— _consummated_ the relationship, if that gives you an idea.” He watches the building that occupies his lover. Sighs. “I can’t kill him, Friedrich. I could never put him in harm’s way.”

“What else is there, that you aren’t telling me?” He sounds suspicious, so Washington relays the whole ordeal, starting with the bust in December, up until the recent events involving John, on the roof. Apparently, John had overheard their argument and Alex’s tirade. He listens to the baron slowly become more and more emotional about the situation, to the point where he’s terrified, by the end of it.

“You have to help me,” Washington clarifies. “We have to figure something out. Commission is going to ask about him.”

“Tell them about the murder charges,” he says simply. “Say that you’re using Alexander as an inside source, and that he has no idea who you are. He doesn’t, does he?”

“I don’t think so. But he knows who Lafayette and John are.”

“Keep them away from him. If there’s a moment, where they even _remotely_ mention who you are, it’s over. They could slip up.” Then he shifts. “And if you like him as much as you say you do, you’ll leave him out of your life.”

He’s right, but Washington can’t afford to do that. The joy Alex brings into his life in unprecedented. He loves everything about him, and it’s too soon to mess that up. The hand holding the phone to his ear is shaking. “I can’t do that,”

“Can’t? Or won’t? You know if Congress thinks he’s a threat, they’re going after both of you, right?” Von Steuben doesn’t sound impressed. “You have to be smart about this. It’s already bad enough you’re attached to him.”

“I can fix this,” Washington responds oddly. “I’m going to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter wasn't as tense as you guys thought it was gonna be, because I introduced JeffMads instead of carrying on with Hercules and Burr's scene, as well as showing what John & Laf were up to. 
> 
> Next chapter is going to be tense with Burr & Herc, Laf & John, and then GeorGE'S MEETING WITH COMMISSION!!!!   
> also I use "Commission" & "Congress" interchangeably!
> 
> ANNOUNCMENTS: 
> 
> bc my birthday is tomorrow, I will not be uploading bc I won't be able to write & all this weekend, I will be out! And so, you can expect the next update to be on Tuesday! I will really really really try to squeeze in extra time to write from time to time, but there are no promises! 
> 
> Anyway, ily all & remember to be kind. Until next time. :) ❤


	13. Highlights

Hamilton is both pleased and disturbed to find that life in the precinct has carried on without him, these last few days. It reminds him of the night he met George—where he could have died and that beautiful music wouldn’t have stopped playing. Probably gurgled in his ears, over his head, like he was drowning, but the record never would have stopped spinning. That makes him gag when he’s alone, in the breakroom.

Some bodies from his case have been ID’ed, and Burr was right: they’re overwhelmingly Jefferson soldiers. He doesn’t mention Burr’s theory, because he doesn’t see him, yet, and that, too, makes him nervous. He’d gotten a text, though, saying Charlie had been ‘taken care of.’ Whatever that means.

Robespierre has managed to communicate to the public in a way that inspired and encouraged them to wait—by promising them full access to the victim IDs, once the remaining relatives were notified. It made logical sense, considering those looking for missing relatives and friends would find out if their loved ones were there, or not.

It was either stupid, or brave, and remembering his argument with George, Hamilton suddenly can’t tell the difference.

But he sees Hercules getting on the elevator, and suddenly, he’s enraged.

He sees him walking with a folder, talking to a small woman, and his heart drops into his stomach, and he feels lightheaded. He can’t stop himself from marching up to the man, and as much as he wants to keep his mouth shut, he can already feel the words forming on his tongue. His fists are tightly clenched, and his eyes are rimmed with tears.

“Herc.”

The giant looks over his shoulder, staring down at Hamilton. Then he bids goodbye to the woman, and gestures for Hamilton to join him outside, away from everyone.

When they’re in the back, where no one can hear them, Hercules asks, “Alex? What’s wrong?”

Biting his lip, he tries not to explode _again_ but it’s nearing that time of life where things are just shitty and Hamilton can’t get a break. And then he remembers: that’s all the time. That makes sense.

“You’re not dead.”

“What? Of course, I’m not _dead_.” He’s shocked, Hamilton can see it written all over his face.

“Don’t make me sound crazy. I thought Lafayette got to you!”

Hercules frowns. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I got your text, but I went to see Trinity’s mother in Riker’s.”

“You told me you would stay home. I _asked_ you to stay home.”

“I ended up going to Riker’s Island.”

Hamilton feels his bottom lip quivering, and he knows he must look and sound stupid, but he’s not going to cry in front of Hercules. He’s not weak, he keeps telling himself. “You _fucking_ idiot!” he screams, slapping the stuff out of Hercules’ hands. “Do you know I thought you were _dead_? I thought Trinity was! I thought it was my fault! I showed up at your house an _hour_ after I texted you, and you weren’t there! You couldn’t just _text_ me: ‘hey I’m goin’ to see Liz with the baby,’? You couldn’t just _let me know_ you weren’t dead? You couldn’t just pick up the _phone_? Do you know how _paranoid_ I was? Do you know what kind of thoughts that would have prevented? You were my only friend, Hercules!”

“I know, and I’m sorry,” his voice is low.

“You’re _sorry_? You’re fucking _SORRY_?” He doesn’t care how loud he is at this point. “I thought you and your daughter were _slaughtered_ in a ditch somewhere and all you have to say is you’re _sorry_?” He rubs his temples. “There is a homicidal French psychopath on the _loose_ trying to spill my guts in broad daylight and when I tell you not to _do something_ , you do it anyway and tell me you’re sorry! I cannot fucking believe this _shit_.”

“Does that sound familiar?” Hercules deadpans at the irony.

“Shut the fuck up, Hercules.”

“Why would it have been your fault?” Despite that last statement, he asks gently, reaching to rest his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“No, fuck you,” Hamilton moves back, staring at Hercules angrily. “You don’t get to raise my blood pressure and give me panic attacks, and then ask me questions.”

“Alex, I’m _sorry_. I didn’t know it was that urgent. If I’d known you were—I mean, I would have called you _at least_.”

“No, fuck that! Where have you been all weekend, anyway? Huh? You spend it at home? Because I went by last night, and it was still _empty_. That just confirmed my paranoia. Twelve unanswered calls, forty-three un-replied-to text messages. Six emails. Four visits. _Nothing_.”

“They take our phones. Make us turn them off.”

“They take them for the whole weekend?” Hamilton growls. “Don’t you _fucking_ lie to me, Mulligan.”

His eyes harden, and he picks his things up. “It’s none of your business.”

“NONE OF MY GODDAMN FUCKING BUSINESS, HUH? BECAUSE _MY_ GAY ASS WAS WORRIED ABOUT YOU, HERC. YES, THAT’S RIGHT. _I’M GAY_. BUT THIS ISN’T ABOUT ME COMING OUT. THIS IS ABOUT YOU _LYING_ TO ME.” He slaps the stuff out of Hercules’ hands again. “ _WHERE THE FUCK WERE YOU_?”

Startled, Hercules stares at Alex for a moment. Not because he has _yet again_ knocked his things out of his hands, but because now Alex wants a straight answer. (‘Straight’ probably isn’t the right word. He resists the urge to smile.) The ambush has gone from venting to demanding answers; answers are not what Hercules is here to give. But then he sighs and rubs his face. Alex is about 5 feet tall and a good 5 inches. If that. Hercules is looking down at him, and the determination and concern etching into his fine features makes him wonder if he should come clean.

“I was helping a woman find her child.”

“What?”                                                                                      

“Marie Antoinette lost her daughter and Detective Burr had her, and we reunited them.”

“Burr…?” He watches Alex’s face crinkle in thought. “Wait, you mean _Charlie_?”

“That was the little girl’s name. I got her with her mom; safe.”

“So where’s Burr now?”

“At home, probably. Your partner is a prick.”

Alex frowns. “He’s a prick, but he’s a loyal one. Leave him alone.”

Hercules picks his things up, and watches Alex. Of course Alex is gay. He’s fucking the General, which Hercules doesn’t have a problem with, aesthetically, but it means big trouble for such a little guy. “Gay, huh?”

“What?”

“You’re gay?” Hercules asks. “How’d you find out?”

“I’ve always been gay,” Alex mumbles, staring at the folders in Hercules’ hands, the way he had before when he was about to smack them out of his hand again. Hercules tucks them under his arm this time. Interest betraying the scowl on his face, Alex asks, “What are those?”

“New details on the Capet Case.”

“You got assigned?” His face lights up, and then a little more sheepishly, he adds, “Can I see them?”

Hercules hands them over tentatively, and watches Alex flip through them. Hercules had managed to successfully switch the focus over to the Jeffersons, along with the help of some of his fellow soldiers undercover, in the Syndicate. To prevent suspicion, a few had argued to investigate the Syndicate, but were placed in charge of the investigation. To divert the attention, they’d have to corrupt evidence that would raise suspicion. He hears Alex ask,

“Why are you targeting the Jeffersons?”

Slowly, he answers, “Well, with all the recent events, and the Jeffersons’ soldiers in the harbor, and all that… figured it was worth looking into.”

Alex’s eyes harden. “I’m telling you to look into the Syndicate.”

Hercules knows what happened to Alex. There isn’t anything he can do about it, other than not kill him, or prevent him from investigating.

But the _General_. The General probably knows Alex is the detective they’re after, and is using him. Or maybe plotting to kill him. Staying ahead of the curve; His jaw clicks when his teeth grind. He can’t stand seeing his best friend being taken advantage of, the way he is now.

He gestures for Alex to follow him inside, while he diverts the conversation to something a little more casual.

* * *

 

“I just can’t believe the little punk chased me for as long as he did. I gotta bad knee!”

“ _Jean_ I am trying to eat.”

“Then eat, Marq. But Jesus fucking _Christ_ ,” John is furiously pacing around Lafayette’s pent, while Lafayette sits on his sofa, eating soup while Benjamin plays Sudoku by the window. “He’s gonna get _my ass_ crucified by the boss!”

“Did you know of the inclinations _du Général_?” The Frenchman calmly sips the soup from a silver spoon. “I witness him chase after Hamilton. They are, uh, _romantically involved_.”

“I heard ‘em, after G-Wash came and distracted ‘im,” John frowns. “He thought I ran, but I stayed up on the roof. The kid told him _everythin’_. Then the don came knockin’ on my door at 10pm last night, askin’ what I knew. Said you were a liar, and that once he has all this cleared up, he’s gonna skin you alive.”

At this, the not-so-calm-anymore Frenchman chokes on his soup, and Benjamin looks up from his puzzle book. Immediately, he’s at Lafayette’s side, aiding him in regrouping at such a blunt statement.

“Did he mean it?” The boy’s soft voice surprises John.

“Shuddup, whore. This don’t concern you.”

“ _Arrêtez!_ Whatever you say to me, you will say in front of Benjamin.” Lafayette’s eyes are angry. “You do not insult the one I love.”

John frowns. “What do you think? You think he _didn’t_ mean it, after you lied to him and failed to carry out the orders he gave?”

“Alexander is hard to kill.”

“Or maybe you’re just a bad capo. He’s thinkin’ it’s time he replaced you,” John hums.

“Well, I cannot kill him, now that the General knows. He would have me slaughtered like an animal for that. But I do not know what it is that he is wanting. And I cannot ask him, but I cannot avoid him.” He looks to John with pleading eyes, begging for help. “He will call me a coward if I avoid him, or he will call me audacious if I approach him.”

“He’s gonna be outta town ‘til Thursday night,” John shrugs. “He’ll think of somethin’. Then he’ll tell you what to do.”

“I am worried that he no longer wishes to kill the detective,” Lafayette frowns. “Or even what the both of them _know_ of each other.”

“Well, they both could know about each other. The boss knew Hamilton was a detective, and now he knows Hamilton is the one he was after, in the beginnin’. Maybe he told Hamilton he’s the Syndicate boss. Maybe they’s learnin’ how’ta deal with that, togetha. But let’s pray they don’t end up like _Romeo and Juliet._ ”

Lafayette nods. “My dedication is to _le Général_. My heart and soul go into this job, to keep my family, back home in France well-eating, and happy.” Though he cannot see an ending where someone is not dead. He’s thinking it’s either him, their beloved General, or that fucking detective.

He’ll bet his fucking kidney it’s gonna be that detective.

* * *

 

The sun is setting, and Washington has reached _Le Méridien Philadelphia_ , the hotel the Congress always pays for. He’s not too happy to find that he’s rooming next door to the Jeffersons. (The couple is always loud in their… _orgasmic endeavors_.) He figures he should have brought Alex with him, but that wouldn’t really make sense, because half of New York knows the General is dating a cop, and the other half isn’t in the mafia.

He groans when he reaches his room, and flops face-down on the large bed, kicking his shoes off as he breathes in the fresh scent of linen. He’s glad this hotel smells nice. It’s got a nice décor, as usual. They changed the carpet, though. It’s rougher under his bare feet. He shuffles his feet on the carpet, sighs.

Now he has to figure out what to do with Alex.

Well, actually, he already has a plan.

Well, _actually_ , he has three.

It goes like this:

  1. Tell Commission he’s using Alex as inside intel, and come clean about the murder thing Alex is trying to nail him for.
  2. Tell Commission what _actually_ happened
  3. Tell Alex to leave the country.



They all sound like good plans, but then he crosses #2 off of his list. Because who the hell tells the truth in the Mafia?

He fixes himself a drink, and resumes his position on the bed, lying face-down, in a metaphorical pool of regret and angry solitude. After about 10 minutes of mental regrouping, he decides to shower. He wants to call Alex, but chances are the kid is already asleep, or studying. He decides it would be better to just text him, so he does.

 **Alex♥ ♥ ♥  
            ** hey

After some time, he gets no reply, and decides to take a shower, anyway. It’s going to be a long day, tomorrow.

* * *

 

Thomas and James are greeted by the Syndicate boss’ odd morning routine, which usually involves dragonfruit and workout music. Today, it also involves plyometric lunges, which Thomas happily participates in whilst James occupies a bench with his book.

Washington doesn’t talk much, and James is reading. So Thomas is really the only one talking as he vents about the wallpaper change in the executive building.

“Have you seen that movie _Killer Klowns from Outer Space_?” He’s watching his reflection in the gym mirror in front of them as he sweats, his afro bouncing as he switches legs, in sync with George.

“No.”

“It reminded me of the cotton candy scene,” he rasps breathlessly, but he doesn’t bother to stop talking, despite his shortness of breath. “It was an atrocious choice. Wouldn’t you say, Jim?”

James looks up from his book. “What?”

“The wallpaper in the lobby,” Thomas stops, and watches James in the mirror. “The pink wallpaper, in the executive building. It used to be blue.” He’s still trying to catch his breath but he _doesn’t stop talking_.

“Pink reminds me of babies,” James responds.

Thomas frowns. “That isn’t what I was asking.”

James shrugs and goes back to his book as Washington stretches his legs, on the ground. His basketball shorts are heavy, and Thomas’ voice is becoming more and more annoying by the second. He holds his tongue, though. No need in starting something he won’t be able to finish.

“So, I think the powder blue gave it a nice, subtle hint of refreshment that every office building needs. At least it isn’t some gloomy grey.”

Nothing Thomas owns seems anything less of flamboyant. Whether it’s flaunting his money, style, or personality, Thomas always dresses to the nines. And James’ color palette always complements Thomas’, no matter what they’re doing.

They have a strange, enthusiastic dynamic between them—one Washington can’t quite place. He watches James eye Thomas’ rear when he bends over, and he notices when Thomas seems to listen with his entire body when James speaks. They know each other better than anyone could imagine, and their sex life is—

Well, Washington is subject to overhearing it, when they stay next door to each other.

He wonders if that’s what love is, and if such a love can be forbidden. Of course, marriage isn’t really on his mind right now, but he understands that usually that’s what comes next.

If there even is a “next” with Alex.

And he isn’t about to take relationship advice from Mr. and Mr. Homicidal Maniac.

The Jeffersons are fucking _vile_.

They kill their own men and dump their bodies for the animals. Their hired killings are probably the highest on the East Coast, both in rates and reward. The body count they are responsible for, all over the country, is enough for Washington to realize that these average men are savage killers, and they are bloodthirsty. Their methods are insane. He remembers learning the family history of the Jefferson Family, as a boy. Their use of guillotines, disembodiment, and evisceration is unprecedented in their executions. Washington finds that usually a singular bullet to the head works just fine. The Jeffersons seem to have a separate philosophy. The word “overkill” doesn’t seem to be in their vocabulary.

Washington can be cruel, but the Jeffersons are just evil.

Alone, Washington is probably responsible for the deaths of about 50 people in the past five years.

The Jeffersons exercise their execution tools probably every morning.

And they’re not hostile people, they’re just very…

Well, sadistic.

(Thomas is more of a sadomasochist, Washington has observed.)

The meeting is at noon, where Washington sits at a table, next to Thomas and James. Behind them, the mob bosses from Rhode Island and Jersey sit together in twos. Delaware, and Connecticut are at one table, by themselves. At another table, the boss from Virginia sits with Georgia, and the Carolinas sit together. New Hampshire sits with Massachusetts, and Pennsylvania sits with Maryland. They have met in the historical Independence Hall Assembly Room, under the Liberty Bell, which they all take a moment to honor.

Washington watches James fold his blank paper into a swan, instead of listening to the verbal assault coming from the Congress.

“It appears,” one frail man says, regarding a paper. “That of 15 bosses… only six of you actually have heirs to assume the role of your families.”

“Georgia wishes to speak, Congressman.”

“Georgia may.”

“Um.” He’s a small, young blond man. His face is flushed red. “If I may point out—of the 15 in here, four are minors, and five are gay.”

Washington does the math.

Accurate.

“The Congressman acknowledges this, Georgia. You may sit.” He looks around. “Ladies. Gentlemen. If you do not have an heir, and you are misplaced from your thrones,” his eyes snap to Washington’s viciously. “You may have the displeasure of finding that your empire may crumble very quickly. I understand that the regime has reached a Golden Age, since the 80’s, but some of you have become loud. Among these states are New York. New York, please speak.”

Washington exchanges glances with Thomas and James.

“Which one of you is it, having relations with a detective of the NYPD?” Another Congressman asks, and the Assembly Room gasps.

Washington stands. “Permission to speak, Congressman.”

“And you are?”

“Washington of New York.”

“And you are seeing the detective, if I am correct.” He’s looking through a bunch of papers.

“Your Honor, New York was under siege by false claims of a detective who was undermining the authority of me. The detective was attempting to convict New York of a murder he did not commit, which would have inevitably shut down New York’s Syndicate.”

“And why is murder an issue, New York?” A Congresswoman asks, narrowing her eyes.

“It was the murder of the NYPD Commissioner.” He stops. Takes a deep breath. “I sought the detective to kill the detective, myself, but I learned that if I could manipulate them correctly, I could have the inside source to the NYPD I knew my regime needed. I have been successful thus far, Your Honor.”

“And has this detective any clue as to who you might be, New York?”

He answers without thinking, “No, Congresswoman.”

The three Commissioners exchange glances, and then the old man speaks again.

“We will not replace you for your affairs, New York. However, we will give you two weeks to close the case, and get rid of the detective, or we _will_ have to kill you both. Understood?”

“Yes, Congressman.”

“You may sit. Next, Virginia, and the trafficking through the harbor. Virginia, you may speak.”

Basically, meetings with Commission is for bosses to see what’s up in other territories. Washington doesn’t like having everyone know about his relationship.

However, now there is a much heavier weight on his mind.

He may have to revert to Plan #3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome back! 
> 
> also, there are a lot of historical cameos, if you couldn't tell. :) 
> 
> thank you for reading, and as usual, comments are my lifeline! I'm glad to be back & excited to continue Smoke Break!


	14. Feedback

The ambiance is dim, copper lighting over heavy jazz tunes, belting from the stage at the front of the club. A sweet trumpet glides smooth notes, and clarinets faintly interject as Hamilton approaches the bar, taking in the scene in awe. A man with a fluffy afro is on the trumpet, while a bigger man beside him plays the clarinet. He’s greeted by a chipper bartender, who shakes him up a drink, with a bright smile. It makes Hamilton smile. Before he can get the drink, though, he’s escorted through the crowd by the Schuylers Sisters, until he’s at the front of the stage, where a tall, older gentleman stands with a silver blocky microphone to his lips. He’s dressed in a black tux, but it seems rather old fashioned, the way it nicely hugs his waist.

Something seems off, before he realizes he’s in an older version of _Ad Hoc_ , but there are flapper girls and silver drapes. Before he can speak, his attention is caught by the singer onstage.

And his golden voice flows, “ _Who~_? _Stole my heart away_ , _who~_?”

His backup singers, chanting lyrics behind him, are Lafayette, Laurens, and Hercules, and his eyes flick back to the man, and he realizes it’s George, inviting him on stage. He doesn’t know whether to be angry or confused, but shock freezes him as George continues,

“ _Makes me dream all day?_ ” he motions his body to the beat, which makes Hamilton’s face heat up when he catches Lafayette’s deadly glare. “ _Dreams. I. Know. Can never come true_?”

Laurens doesn’t seem to be paying him any mind, singing with his eyes to the crowd but—what’s Hercules doing onstage with Lafayette and Laurens? His attention is distracted, again, by George, who hops down from the stage, twining the microphone cord in his hand, stalking up to Hamilton as his voice solidifies, and Hamilton can feel it in his chest.

“ _Seems as though I’ll ever be blue!_ ” He drops the cord, and offers Hamilton his hand as he sings, “ _Who~_? _Means my happiness, who_ ~? _Would I answer yes to~_?” He spins Hamilton, twirling his arm over his head, so that Hamilton’s back is pressed to his love’s chest, and they sway as he sings, “ _Well you’d ought to guess who…No one but you!_ ”

The big band heats up again, as George and Hamilton begin to dance, during the instrumental, locking fingers and twirling, but before they kiss, Hamilton’s jolted awake by the alarm on his phone.

Shit.

He stares at the ceiling for a moment, and the sighs as he reaches to turn off the annoying chirping. He hates sleeping alone, especially when he could snuggle into George’s chest. He’s been staying at George’s place, for the past few nights, in light of the recent events. While George was out of town, he offered Hamilton the guest room, where Rosita had straightened up, to his liking.

Ah. George.

He grumbles, rubs his eyes. In an instant, he has forgotten his dream, although he remembers it being a pleasant and oddly confusing one. Most of his dreams are that way. He doesn’t pay much attention to them when he actually remembers them, either.

He shuffles to his bathroom and starts his shower, humming a song George sang to him a while ago, over the phone. He’s thinking he should text the man good morning, or something, but he doesn’t wanna seem clingy too early on in the relationship.

And, considering what they’ve been through in the past few days, (i.e., Hamilton’s meltdowns, sex, anecdotes, and other emotional shit) he thinks it’d be too much for George.

But then again, George is a strange guy. It’s that he’s-a-tough-looking-guy-but-really-is-a-teddy-bear-with-a-good-heart-underneath-that-hasrh-exterior kinda thing that makes Hamilton reconsider George. Makes him wonder if he’s too good to be true.

His nerves have simmered down, since he discovered Hercules, Trinity, Charlie, and Burr all alive. That really only leaves him with going after the Jeffersons, like he and Burr agreed, but he also reconsiders _that_ whilst getting dressed.

Why would he hand the Syndicate over to Burr when he has the Syndicate chasing him, in his own backyard?

He stares at himself in the mirror.

If he can set a trap and catch one of them, surely he can make them talk.

Burr won’t have to know, and neither will George.

He rubs his hands together. Who will it be?

One of the Schuylers?

No, too risky.

Lafayette is certainly out of the equation.

He doesn’t know any other members.

Maybe he can get John Laurens.

Small, whiny, beautiful John.

As he’s brewing his coffee in George’s tidy kitchen, he cooks up a plan without skipping a beat.

Laurens has seen Hamilton’s face before. But he’s pretty sure he hasn’t seen George’s and that means—

 _No_.

He can’t bring George into this. Not after Sunday.

He rubs his face, reconsidering the plan.

He can’t put his friends in harm’s way. Right now, his friends are George, Burr, and Hercules.

He has to think of a way to _somehow_ trap that fucking capo, and bring him back to make him talk.

But Hamilton can’t go back to his apartment, and he certainly can’t bring _Laurens_ there. He looks around the kitchen, and admires the slate grey color scheme George has selected. But then he gets an idea. It’s Thursday morning, and George will be home either tonight or tomorrow morning. It will take more manpower than Hamilton has to offer to abduct a grown man, but he figures if he can outwit the mobster, he should be fine.

But that would require either a baseball bat or chloroform, and Hamilton has neither.

(He figures maybe he can peacefully abduct the capo, but then he scoffs at the idea and erases it from his mind forever.)

Anyway, he can bring the guy back here, and keep him in George’s basement or something, and sneak him out before George ever notices.

“Brilliant!” he exclaims suddenly, which frightens Rosita, who is arranging flowers on George’s windowsill. “Sorry,” he mumbles sheepishly, and notices she’s arranging white asphodel. He stares in concentration, and stirs creamer into his coffee, while thinking about it.

Asphodels are a very strange choice in houseplants.

“Are those yours?” he asks, once he has tasted his coffee.

She looks up. “No. They are Mr. Washington’s flowers. He likes to keep them in the sun.”

Hamilton studies the stark white petals, and smiles. “They’re beautiful.”

“He likes them because in mythology, they are immortal.” She smiles. “They were also the favorite food of the dead.”

Hamilton’s smile falters a bit, and his gaze drops back to the flowers, which Rosita is handling with utmost care. “Mr. Washington is an avid reader?”

“He is,” she grins. “His library never needs dusting. He’s always so busy in there.”

Hamilton’s smile perks up a bit. “He has a library?”

Rosita smiles. “Yes, but I’m afraid he has the key.”

Hamilton looks around, and nods complacently.

“Are you Mr. Washington’s new lover?” Rosita asks carefully.

“I am,” he smiles proudly. But then, his confidence wavers, and he adds, “I hope.”

Rosita laughs, and gestures for him to follow her into the kitchen. “I’m glad he’s found somebody. Mr. Washington has been so lonely, these past years.” She takes out pans to cook.

Hamilton’s eyes follow her movements, but his ears are more in tune to her words. “Pardon?”

“His wife passed ages ago. I had begun to think he would never remarry. But on the evening you were due to come over, he was so excited to have you,” she looks back at Hamilton. “I had never seen him so delighted.”

Hamilton’s face flushes and he tries to disguise a smile. Had George really talked about him before their first date? It’s kind of hard not to grin, when he imagines the guy excited. He sips his coffee to keep from smiling too big. But on account of his sudden, apparent happiness, he remembers the plan, and figures now is the perfect time to ask Rosita about basements.

He will, after all, need a place to store the captive.

* * *

 

Washington had a sleepless night, after playing cards with Virginia and New Jersey, drinking with Rhode Island, and teaching the young Georgia about New York’s past as a mob. He had found himself getting distracted by the boy’s beauty, but stopped himself every time he got a subtle thought. Alex has consumed his mind, since they met, and now it’s becoming more of a headache, than anything else. He likes the kid a lot, but he really needs to find a solution.

He can’t protect him. He can warn him as best he can, but he figures it will end much like Of Mice & Men and then rolls his eyes at the high school reading material.

The problem is Commission can find anybody. And if they have to kill Alex, themselves, they will come after Washington, without hesitation. He can’t have that.

Maybe Alexander knows Washington is the boss, after all. Maybe all of this was just his undercover work. He can’t trust Alex. But then, he thinks about the boy, and what he said to Washington, through his tears. He thinks about his lips on his, and his laugh, and his hands in Washington’s. He couldn’t possibly think Washington to be the boss of the Syndicate, if he told him everything without taking a breath, in that alley. He couldn’t have thought Washington to be the boss of the Syndicate when he sang Whitney Huston to him, or laughed at his jokes, or spread his legs.

But his phone buzzes on his nightstand, and it’s a call from Rosita, which is alarming, because she never calls, unless it’s an emergency.

He swipes to answer, and calmly says, “George Washington speaking. Rosita?”

“Mr. Washington,” she whispers, “Just to be clear, you have allowed your boyfriend into your home?”

“Yes,” he chuckles. “He isn’t causing too much trouble, is he?”

“No, sir,” she says strangely. “But he is the detective, exploring the murder case, right?”

“He is,” Washington answers dryly, rubbing is face. “What is it?”

“I think he may be investigating you, personally.”

“What?” Washington sits up, eyes wide, staring at the ugly artwork on the wall across the room. He’s silent for a moment before he’s sputtering, “What’s happened, Rosita?”

“He’s asking if you have a basement. He’s asking if you’re down there a lot. He’s asking for a key, to look around down there.”

Washington’s heart drops.

The fucking snake.

That _fucking_ sneaky bastard.

 He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t breathe.

“Sir?”

“What did you tell him?”

She’s quiet for a moment, and then says, “That you don’t have one.”

“Alright. Good, Rosita. Thank you.”

“What do you want me to do, sir?”

“Keep him there. Be natural. Make sure he doesn’t go out today.”

“When will you be back?”

“I’m leaving right now. I’ll be there in about two hours,” he answers shortly, before hanging up.

Washington is fucking _livid_.

He sits, staring at the wall in dumbfounded silence. His anger jumbles up his words to the point where his usual elegance is nowhere to be found, and all he can manage are swears, at the top of his powerful lungs, and frustrated groans of exasperation.

And to think, he trusted that rat.

And to think, he wanted to _protect_ him.

He’s gathering his things into his suitcase in one moment, and checking out of his room, in the next, without a word to anyone. He’d seen Jefferson and Madison watching him as he left, dialing Greene on his way out the door.

“George,” he hears him groggily groan into his phone. “How was the meeting?”

“It was fine,” Washington growls, backing out the parking lot, before steering onto the road. “Listen, I need a favor.”

“Just say the words, boss.” He must recognize the gruffness in Washington’s voice and realizes it isn’t a good day to be buddy-buddy.

“I need you to swing by my house today. Stay there, with Alex and Rosita.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Just get there ASAP, and _do not leave_. Don’t let either of them leave, Nat.” He hangs up, and grips the steering wheel. His jaw is tight, and he feels his heart breaking.

All this time, he trusted Alex. Gave him the benefit of the doubt. Even when he _found out_ he was hunting Alex, he was generous, and let him live. He could have snapped his neck in that alleyway, holding that beautiful body in his arms. He considered it, but as soon as he felt his arms tighten around the boy’s neck, they melted whenever Alex took a shuddering breath through his tears. Washington pitied him. He let him into his _home_ , and Alex waits until Washington leaves to investigate.

Fucking pathetic.

Washington is not hard to anger, but he usually keeps his temper under control.

Not today.

In two hours, he’ll see that rat again. The fucking cunt. Now he isn’t so sure he’ll be able to stop himself from breaking his neck with his own two hands but—

He could never hurt Alex.

He could never put him in harm’s way.

Shit fucking hell.

He exhales through his nose, feeling his shoulders drop. He hadn’t realized how tense he was.

They can work something out, if Alex is willing to compromise.

If not, then—well, that’s Alex’s own fault.

* * *

 

John Laurens is probably at _Ad Hoc_ , Hamilton figures, and sips his coffee, staring at the asphodel on the windowsill. “Do they like the sunlight, Rosita?”

She looks up from her book. “They do. Mr. Washington has spoiled them.”

“How does one spoil a plant?” Hamilton inquires, tilting his head in confusion.

“He reads to them, most days. Showers them with attention.” She stares at them wistfully. “Very robust flowers, Mr. Hamilton. Immortal indeed.”

He nods slowly, and then his mind is occupied with his plan, again. Rosita goes back to reading, and he zones out, staring at the flowers.

If he’s going to ‘trap’ John Laurens, he needs a lure. Unfortunately, he doesn’t know the guy enough to know what he’s into, to make a good enough bait. What do mobsters like? Lobsters, probably. Only because it rhymes. He smiles at his own joke.

If he _can’t_ lure Laurens, he’ll have to force him to comply, or literally kidnap him, which seems really weird and unnecessary. But he’ll do what he needs to do.

His eyes drift back to Rosita. And what about her? He can’t just walk into George’s home with another man in front of her. He can’t smuggle an unconscious body in, either. Rosita’s going to have to leave. He’ll find the basement on his own. 

One thing at a time.

Maybe he can pick Trin up from daycare, and use her as bait. Maybe John sees the little girl crying, and maybe he feels bad for her. Maybe he doesn’t. And Hamilton is no torture expert, but tickling sounds like a good plan, to make someone talk.

_Are mobsters even ticklish?_

Shit.

This is harder than he thought it was going to be.

Okay, scratch that. He’ll have to do some research, but other than that, he has an idea already. He gets up to get his coat, by the door, to which Rosita rises.

“Mr. Hamilton, I’m afraid you can’t leave.”

“Excuse me?”

Rosita puts her book down. “Please sit.”

He stares at her oddly, and slowly approaches the living room. “Why can’t I leave?”

“Mr. Washington has asked you to stay home today.”

This must be because of what he told George on Sunday, Hamilton rationalizes. But he hasn’t seen Lafayette since last week, and he’s sure nothing could go wrong. Laurens really isn’t that much bigger than Hamilton is. If anything, he’ll get a broken nose, or something, but that really isn’t even _that bad_. “I’ll be fine,” he smiles, and turns back toward the door, but before he can open it, it’s opened for him, and he’s met with a solid chest.

“Oh, hello,” the familiar man says oddly. He realizes it’s George’s friend—something-Greene. “Alex. What a surprise.”

“Mr. Greene,” Hamilton says simply, backing up, to allow the man inside. He seems like he’s George’s best friend, but the audacious intrusion doesn’t quite strike him as appropriate.

“Oh, please. Call me Nat.” His austere appearance doesn’t match the warmth in his tone. It makes Hamilton uneasy. “Rosita. You look as beautiful as ever.”

“Good morning, Mr. Greene,” she blushes. “Mr. Washington is out of town for today.”

“I heard. He’s asked me to stop by.”

Hamilton smiles. “Well, I’m glad you’re here. Rosita probably needs company, cooped up in this house alone all day. I was actually on my way out.”

“You’re not, actually,” Nat says simply. “George has asked me to see that you remain indoors.”

“Oh please, I don’t need a _bodyguard_.” Hamilton’s eyebrows furrow. “Tell him I said thank you, but no, thank you.”

“I’ll tell him nothing of the sort. I’ll tell him that I’ve done what he’s asked of me, and let it rest.” He smiles. “Where are you going, anyway?”

“Work.”

His smile solidifies. “Well, not today.”

Hamilton’s smile falls, but into a very tight frown. He finds it a little ironic that he was just planning on kidnapping a guy, but now he’s being held in George’s home. He’d feel safer if George were actually here, though.

* * *

 

“FUCK. FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, **FUCK**.” His fists beat on the steering wheel with every word he yells.

He still can’t get over the situation.

 _He still can’t get over Alexander_.

But as incredibly angry as he is, he’s still even more upset about the fact that he _knows_ he still cares about that little bitch. He could never bring himself to hurt that boy. The acerbity on his tongue says otherwise.

His phone buzzes and distracts him, though. It’s Greene calling.

“What?”

“Hey, boss. I just got here. Um, Alex was on his way out the door when I got here. Said he was goin’ to work.”

His teeth grind so hard that his jawbone pops. “Okay.”

“But I managed to get him to stay. He’s kind of upset.”

“Yea? Well I’m _kind of_ fucking livid.” Washington snarls. “I’m _kind of_ ready to beat his ass. I _kind of_ want answers.”

“What…happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Boss, something happened between you two. Are you having relationship trouble?”

“No, Nat.”

“Because you know I’m the love guru, out of the two of us.”

“ _No_ , Nat.” He appreciates the underboss attempting to make him smile. Right now is not a good time for that, though. “Just make sure he doesn’t fucking leave or I’ll slit your throat and his.”

“Righto.”

“And make sure Rosita stays away from him.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And act natural.”

Hesitantly, Nat complies, and says, “Anything you want, boss.”

Washington hangs up, and focuses on driving. He likes driving, because a lot of the time, it relaxes him. Right now, though, his mind is racing, and he’s pushing 90mph. He slows down once he realizes, though. He isn’t reckless, and he isn’t impulsive—not like Alexander. It isn’t sitting in his stomach right.

The anger has melted into something more like disappointment, now. Of all people Alex could have gone after, why did it have to be the boss? Why _him_? Did he intend for all of these emotions to get involved between the two of them? He’d been being manipulated by Hercules and Lafayette for the past _years_. Washington, himself, was mesmerized by Alex’s mere presence before they even knew each other. And even after, he still found out Alex’s identity (in terms of profession, not motivation) he still found him to be the most ethereal being he’d ever encountered in his life. And even now, _knowing_ the boy has probably ordered the manhunt on Washington’s ass, he still wants to hold him, and protect him, and _get him out of the country_.

Goddamn it.

* * *

 

Hamilton is reclined in the guest room, reading articles Burr sent to him, after calling in to work, informing them of his absence for the day. It didn’t seem like he’d be missed, judging by Robespierre’s bland tone. Fuck that guy.

He’s hungry, and he has a headache, and he still hasn’t really heard from George, even though the two of them are dating now.

He loves the sound of that. _George is Alexander’s boyfriend_. He lets his eyes flutter shut happily.

He hears the door slam in the living room, and he looks up when he hears a muffled,

“Where is he?”

“In the room, sir.”

“Both of you. Leave. Now.”

He hears someone approaching, and before he can say anything, there’s a knock on the bedroom door.

He opens it slowly, and is met with George’s angry eyes. He looks like he’s aged overnight. He’s guessing the meeting didn’t go too well.

“George? What happened?”

“Let me in.” His voice is hoarse. He hasn’t bothered to remove his coat, gloves, or scarf. The front door closes behind him.

Hamilton steps aside, letting George briskly pass through, to which the man begins to pace around the room. He looks like he’s looking for something, and a very confused Hamilton only watches him, in slight discomfort.

“George…?” he asks more hesitantly. “I wasn’t expecting you back until tonight.”

Washington’s eyes snap to Alex’s and he suddenly feels too big to be in such a small room. “I’m going to give you one chance to say it, Alexander.”

“Say what?” he asks faintly. His face is frozen in a mix of shock, concern, and horror. “George, what happened?”

Washington can’t stand to look him in the eye right now, so he doesn’t look at him at all. “Don’t play dumb. I know you know.”

“What?” Alex’s eyes are now desperately searching George’s face for some sort of answer. He’s scared. Good. He’d better be. “Know what?”

“Why did you want to know about my basement? Why not ask me, instead of the housekeeper?” There’s no way to ask that question without sounding like he’s hiding something. And he is, but it’s not down there. But Alex probably thought so. The fucking snake.

“George… I was planning something,” Alex’s eyebrows furrow, and he blinks rapidly, blinking back tears. “I needed your basement for it. Why are you so defensive?”

“Because it’s an _invasion_ of privacy.”

“Bullshit! People don’t just drive from one state to another just because someone asked about their _basement_! What’s down there, George? Are you a serial killer, or some shit?”

“ _No_ , I’m not a fucking serial killer, Alex!” Washington roars. “What were you going to do in my basement?”

“Kidnap John Laurens!” he yells back, his face flushing red with anger.

Laurens is one of Washington’s capos, and the same guy Alex chased the other day. What does he have against John? “What? Why?”

“To see if I could get him to tell me who the mob boss is, for his Syndicate!” Alex screams back, and he must realize how ridiculous it sounds because he rolls his eyes.

Washington’s shoulders drop.

Wait.

So…

His face tightens into one of utter confusion. That means Alex _doesn’t_ know Washington is the Syndicate boss. That means he wasn’t sneaking behind Washington’s back, and that means everything they’ve had was _real._ Relief floods his chest and he thinks he might faint, but Alex is still talking, so he marches over and their lips collide in a bruising kiss. He twines his hands into the boy’s hair, pushing him up against the wall.

“He wouldn’t tell you in a million years.”

“How do you know?” Alex whispers.

“They’re trained that way.” There’s still hostility boiling in his blood, though, and his hips grind into Alex’s roughly, to which the boy moans profoundly. He feels Alexander’s nails clawing at his coat.

“Off,” he breathes raggedly. “Now.”

Washington shrugs out of it, while shedding his suit jacket and his shirt, and unbuckling his belt. While he does this, he watches Alex rummage through one of the drawers on his dresser, until he finds a bottle of lube and a condom. The kiss they share is deep and lewd, with Alex hooking his arms around Washington’s neck. There’s a large mirror on the dresser, to where Alex can watch Washington’s face, and watch himself being fucked. He rolls on the condom while considering it.

Turns out, the idea only turns the General on, even more. “Turn around,” he growls, squirting a considerable amount of lube into his palm, slicking himself up. “Bend over.”

Alex’s cute ass perks up, and Washington’s eyes flick up to the mirror, sees himself towering over this beautiful young man, waiting for some sort of contact as he sways his hips slowly. His face is flushed pink, and when their eyes meet, Washington’s cock jumps. Fuck. He shucks his pants down, mid-thigh, and strokes his own cock playfully, taking in the sight.

He presses into Alex’s hole slowly, at first, because he knows it’s uncomfortable (from experience) without having been prepared. Then, he gets an idea, and he stops, drops to his haunches, behind Alex, who almost stands up straight, to demand what Washington is doing. To keep him bent over, splays his hands over the small of Alex’s back, and buries his face between Alex’s cheeks, lapping profoundly at the tight ring of muscle, which has Alex screaming for his gods.

He takes delicate care to spread Alex’s cheeks, and he wishes he could see the boy’s face, burning bright red. He kisses his thighs sloppily, making a path up to the boy’s cute asshole, kissing it with tongue and teeth. Alex is trembling, grinding back roughly onto Washington’s face, clawing for leverage on the dresser.

“ _Fuck_ , George!” he squeals, his voice teetering on a sob. “Please, fuck me, please, please, please!”

Washington stands, sees the boy’s tear-streaked face, aflame in crimson pleasure. He slides his cock in, with ease, sighing at how warm and tight Alex is. Fucking _hell_.

He moves, and Alex’s response is a wanton one, his entire body trembling. Washington’s hands tighten on Alex’s waist, squeezing him so hard, he knows his hand prints will be there for days. But Alex would like that, wouldn’t he?

“Slap my ass,” he pleads as Washington picks up the pace. “Slap my ass, please, please!” He squeals when his request is met, bucking his hips up against Washington’s.

Washington is keeping his eyes on Alex’s, through the mirror. His mind is dissolving away, the deeper he gets into this boy, and he can only focus on that breathless moan, chanting his name. His hands venture down Alex’s back, to the nape of his neck, yanking his hair back. He loves the sharp breath the boy takes when he does this. “You like that, Alexander? You like it when I pound this little ass?”

“Yesyesyesyes,” he whimpers, shuddering when Washington switches his angle. “Harder, George, please, I wanna feel you for days.”

And that’s all it takes. With one hand gripping Alex’s hip, and the other pinning him down to the dresser, his strokes become ruthless and his pace becomes reckless. He’s close, too, and Alexander’s moans keep him on edge. His concentration is on the way his boy gapes, how he looks when Washington slams into him, how Washington looks overpowering that force of nature that is Alexander Hamilton.

“I’m gonna come, George,” he cries. “Faster, faster!”

“Fucking greedy little slut, aren’t you?” Washington mumbles, but complies. By now, the entire dresser is being rocked into the wall, with Washington’s force, and Alex’s desperation. He’s muttering to the boy below him, and he feels his hips stutter when he’s about to come. Alex comes first, with a wail, and Washington gets an idea.

“On your knees,” he instructs firmly, and Alex spins around, drops to the ground, mouth hanging open. Washington snaps the condom off and slides his cock into Alex’s awaiting mouth, groaning at how good it feels. He fucks the boy’s face for a minute or two before pulling out, and coming all over Alex’s face, who looks so pretty streaked in his come.

Alex's pretty eyes are dark and filled with lust when he licks the come off of his lips.

Washington actually thinks he’s going to faint, at this point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for being so patient! I made sure to upload early today (it's about 12:30pm right now) and I made sure to give you guys some nice, steamy Hamwash, since I've been gone and you all have been so patient and kind! It's certainly a longer chapter, but that's okay, I think. 
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading, as usual. Drop a comment, tell me what you think, and I'll see you guys when I see you guys!
> 
> (PS, the song GW was singing in the beginning is called "Who" by Tommy Dorsey, if you're curious. I don't like ANY of the YouTube versions, so if you go to Spotify and type that in, the first one is the best one! )


	15. If Not, Winter

“So, do you mind if I ask you where the fuck Alex is?” Hercules demands, approaching Burr’s desk. He’s worried sick, and all Burr is doing is flipping through a yearbook from his sophomore year of high school, laughing at some of his classmates.

Burr looks up over the rim of his round-frame glasses and folds his lips at Hercules. “I’m sorry, weren’t you the one who gave him panic attacks and wouldn’t return his phone calls?” He stands, so that he’s face to face (or face to chin, rather. Burr is a small man) and glares up at Hercules. “Perhaps you should leave Alex be.”

“I’m _not_ going to leave him alone, when I know his life is potentially in danger,” Hercules frowns, following Burr, who is maneuvering through the office. Hercules trails behind him, still talking, though he knows the detective isn’t listening. “I need to know if he’s okay, but I don’t wanna make it weird. Can’t you call him? Aren’t you his partner?”

“Aren’t you his _friend_?” Burr asks, turning on his heel, which sends Hercules staggering back. “Alexander may have forgiven you, but I haven’t. Have you told him who you are?”

“I was planning on it. I’m waiting for the right moment.” Hercules averts his eyes, looking to the ceiling as if it holds the most beautiful secrets in the Universe. “He, um, didn’t really give me a chance to talk, last time. Plus, I’ve been so busy with work, and all that…”

Burr snorts. “Figures.” He turns, again, and continues walking, with Hercules still following him, trying to speak lowly to him, not to be overheard. Trying to keep up with Burr is a challenge. The giant usually walks leisurely, taking in the surroundings, greeting people, but Burr walks like one of those sandpipers, running away from the incoming tides on the beach. “I can call him, if you want.”

Hercules sees an opportunity, and he takes it, leaping in front of Burr, grabbing him by the arm. He leans in, and says, “I heard from some soldiers, from their capos, that the underboss held Alex captive in the General’s home for a few hours. And when the General arrived home, he was fucking _pissed_ and kicked out both the underboss and his maid. No one knows what happened.”

Burr’s eyebrows tighten, as he stares at Hercules. “How do you know this?”

“This is New York. Word gets around.”

“I haven’t heard,” Burr glares.

“Well. You’re not in the mafia.”

“Fair enough,” Burr’s voice is lower register as he says, “Who is the General?”

“I have no fucking clue. I’m a soldier. I know my capo, and I know my fellow soldiers, in my capo’s army.”

“So do the capos know the General?” Burr asks, watching Hercules smile faintly.

“No. Most capos know just the underboss. In this case, though, a few capos know the General, because he practically raised them. One of them, is my capo, Lafayette. The other is a guy named John Laurens. He’s good friends with my boss.” Hercules looks around, and says, “But Lafayette was the one hunting Alex. The General put the hit out on Alex.”

Burr’s eyes widen. “And to be clear, Alex is dating the General?”

“He is.” He huffs, and feels his heart breaking for Alex. “I don’t know what’s going on, anymore.”

“What about other capos that know the General?” Burr asks.

“Um, I think Schuyler Family is familiar with the General, if not close friends with him.”

“Then we’re going to see the Schuyler,” Burr declares, much to Hercules’ alarmed dismay. But he can’t do much protesting, because Burr is already looking for his keys.

* * *

 

“Have you read your Sappho, George Washington?” Alex asks, laying snuggled into Washington’s chest, twining their fingers together absently. “The enigmatic Grecian poet from Lesbos?”

“I have not,” Washington replies languidly. He loves the feeling of Alex’s hands in his, while his smooth voice is drawling out the perfect words at the perfect pace, with the perfect tone, from that perfect mind. It makes Washington’s insides melt. “What did he write about?”

“Sappho was a woman.”

“Even better.”

Alex takes a breath, and he smiles. He meets Washington’s eyes, and despite it being a Thursday afternoon, Washington’s heart is thudding in his chest when Alexander recites the poem. “ _And on more than one occasion (there were two, to be exact), while I looked on, too silent with adoration to say your name, you glazed your breast and arms in oil. / No holy place existed without us then. / No woodland, no dance, no sound. / Beyond all hope, I pray those timeless days we spent might be twice as long. / I prayed one word: I want. / Someone, I tell you, will remember us, even in another time_.”

The room is silent as Washington soaks in those words. His hand has stilled in the boy’s hair, as the words linger on Washington’s own lips. He can feel Alex massaging his other hand, kissing his palm with swift, sweet pecks. But the last line has caught Washington’s attention. “Someone will remember us. Even in another time,” he repeats faintly. “You remembered all that?”

“The poem, itself, is a lot longer. I started in the middle.”

His eyes drift up to the ceiling. “Keep going.”

Alex shifts against Washington’s weight, and lay’s his head on Washington’s chest, staring at them in the mirror across from them, on top of the dresser as Washington’s hand rakes through Alex’s hair, and Alex’s hands fumble with Washington’s. He keeps his eyes on the ceiling when Alex starts again.

“ _I loved you, Atthis. Years ago…_ ”

* * *

 

Angelica Schuyler is one of the most well-known and respected women in Manhattan. Part of that is due to her last name, and the other parts of that have to do with the way she carries herself, the kind of woman that she is. Fiery, bold, and intelligent. Angelica takes bullshit from no one.

Eliza is kind and patient, and is Angelica’s biggest cheerleader. She is humble and graceful, but she, too, is strong and unwavering in her beliefs. Next to Angelica, Elizabeth Schuyler is one of the most powerful, well respected, and influential women in New York, bearing her father’s name, and he mother’s heart.

Their little sister, Peggy is a mix between the two girls. She’s bold, like Angelica, but sweet like Eliza. It’s an odd combination, and she doesn’t say much.

Together, the Schuyler Sisters have the power to manipulate the Cardinals of the Vatican City, restructure the American Government System, build grand empires, and introduce equal rights into patriarchal societies, all while educating themselves and those around them.

Right now, though, the young ladies own a café in Manhattan, in between a laundry mat and a tattoo parlor.

Their business is a small one. They operate on their own, passing out hot coffee every morning to the homeless people on the block. Since the girls are living in the lap of luxury, as the daughters of Senator Schuyler, while also being mob daughters, they’ve decided, collectively, that they don’t need extra money. Their profit goes to charity.

Since it’s lunch hour, the girls are mostly focused on their work, and don’t notice when Hercules walks in, with Burr. The line is pretty packed for such a small building, with Peggy operating the register, Eliza making the drinks, and Angelica taking orders of the people she’s seated. Each of them have huge smiles on their faces, perky demeanors, and look perfectly beautiful, keeping busy.

Hercules steps to the side, urging Burr to wait until the restaurant chills out. Burr will have none of that. Hercules goes to use the restroom while he waits.

He’s standing in line, behind a tall man, in a business suit, on his phone. Burr is too short to see over the guy’s shoulder, but he looks much less annoyed when the guy leaves the line. Burr gives Hercules a thumbs up, paired with the charming smile, and promptly moves to step into the empty spot. However, he’s curtly cut off by the same man, jumping back in front of him, moments later, with the phone still pressed to his ear.

Burr frowns, and Hercules watches intently.

“Excuse me, sir,” he says politely. He taps the guy on his shoulder, who looks back at Burr, none too happy to have a conversation.

He’s polite nonetheless. “ _Oui_ , can I help you?” The hand holding the phone is bound in a neon orange cast.

“Yes, uh, no cutsies.”

“ _Pardon_?” His face is bewildered, and his French accent is thick.  

“You got out of line,” Burr explains. “And then you jumped back in. No cutsies. You have to go to the back.”

They both look to the back of the line, where it winds out of the door, and then the businessman stares down at Burr again. “I had to throw something away.”

Burr shakes his head, and looks back to where Hercules was standing, only to find that he isn’t there. “Listen, buddy,” Burr begins, turning to look back at the businessman. “I don’t want any trouble. You either get to the back of the line, or—”

“I’ll take the next customer, please,” they both hear, and are immediately racing to the counter. Burr and the Frenchman get there at the same time, shoving each other aside, the businessman with his money on the counter, Burr with his palms flat.

“Hello…” Peggy looks between the two of them oddly. “Um… what can I get you gentlemen today?”

“A lawyer,” the Frenchman growls, glaring at Burr.

Burr says to the cashier, hurriedly, “A venti iced skinny hazelnut macchiato, sugar-free syrup, extra shot, light ice, no whip.”

The Frenchman also rushes to say his order, talking over Burr as he says, “ _Non, non_! A iced, half-caff, ristretto, venti, four pump, sugar-free, cinnamon dolce soy skinny latte!”

Peggy, overwhelmed, flushes bright red. “Um, one at a time, please.” She scrambles for a pen, to write all of this down.

They exchange deadly glares, and straighten their backs, pushing their shoulders back. They start speaking, again, at the same time, repeating their order over and over in an effort to see who will stop first, and the winner prevails.

Neither of them falter.

“ _A ventiicedhalfcaskinnyhazlrttomachiaventifoupreesyrupextrcinnamondolcextrashotlighticskinnylattnowhip.”_

Peggy stares at them going back and forth, vaguely confused and upset. She notices Hercules, exiting the bathroom, and calls, “Hercules!”

At this, both men turn around, in Hercules’ direction, yelling,

“Hercules! Come here!”

Hercules just looks like a deer in headlights, because now the whole restaurant is staring at him, along with Aaron Burr, Marquis de Lafayette, and the Schuyler Sisters. All is silent, until a toddler starts crying and some guy behind him burps.

“Who _the fuck are you_?” The Frenchman growls, down at Burr. And then, to Hercules, he snaps, “Come.”

In front of the whole restaurant, Hercules reluctantly shuffles forward. Lafayette is, after all, his capo. He hates being the center of attention, though. “Um, can we do this outside?”

“All three of you,” Angelica demands, shoving through the crowd. “Out.”

“But what about my venti iced skinny hazelnut macchiato, sugar-free syrup, extra shot, light ice, no whip?” Burr frowns.

Peggy doesn’t say anything, only waves the next customer to the register. Angelica holds her ground. “You get out or I’ll call the cops. All three of you.”

And it doesn’t take much else for the three men to end up, across the street, at a deli. Burr’s still upset about his order as he eats his sandwich, and Hercules is still upset about being humiliated. The drive back to work is one of shame. Burr doesn’t speak, and Hercules isn’t going to ask him to explain himself.

But then he finds himself growling, “What the fuck happened?”

“Don’t swear at me.”

“ _Burr._ ”

“I was standing in line behind a guy, and he got out of line. And then he came back, and expected to get back in the same spot, and so I told him ‘no cutsies’.”

“ _No cutsies_? What are you, fucking _five_?”

With a dangerous glare, Burr continues, “Anyway, he and I ordered at the same time. But that spot was mine.”

Hercules, watching the road, has a look of bewilderment plastered on his otherwise usually serious face. “Alex is rubbing off on you.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say.”

“Truth hurts,” Hercules mutters. He doesn’t bother to mention Lafayette was the guy Burr was arguing with. He’ll find out soon enough, though.

* * *

 

Lafayette is livid. Again.

In the deli, he sits at a table, to be met with John Laurens, while bitterly stirring his watered-down coffee. He doesn’t appreciate not being able to have his iced half-caff, ristretto, venti, four pump, sugar-free, cinnamon dolce soy skinny latte, due to that one guy’s foolishness. He’s sure part of it is due to how similarly he behaved to Hamilton. His jaw grinds.

Laurens walks in, not long after, in his parka, with an umbrella tucked under his arm. Lafayette rises to greet him, while reaching to shake hands with him, but is instead presented with the umbrella. It’s a long, white one, with a wooden, hooked handle. There initials carved into the handle, _A.L._ with a small heart. In confusion, he looks up to Laurens for an explanation.

“It was the umbrella you left in my car the other day. I forgot to give it to you.”

Lafayette realizes it was Adrienne’s umbrella, and snatches it, plopping back down into his chair. “I did not ask you here to discuss umbrellas, _Jean_.”

“Yea, no, I know.” Laurens replies, his face blank. “I just wanted to give you your umbrella first.”

“Umbrellas can wait.”

“Then give it back.”

“Will you not _listen_?” Lafayette snaps. “There was a man in the restaurant across the way, who disrespected me.”

Laurens nods, but doesn’t look like he’s following. “So…?”

“We must kill him.”

“Marq—”

“ _Non_ , _Jean_ , it has not been my week, and now I must take my anger out on him. We will find him, and kill him.”

“No. We won’t.”

“ _Oui_. _Nous allons_.”

“Marq, you can’t just kill people who’re mean to you,” Laurens frowns.

“ _Mais oui_. I do it all the time.”

“That ain’t the point.”

“Then what is your point?”

“The point is: we ain’t killin’ a random guy who maybe had a bad day.”

“Perhaps we will. Or I will alone. It does not matter to me.”

“You know how you sound right now?” Laurens sounds concerned.

Suddenly, Lafayette grabs him by the collar, across the table, snarling, “I am losing my _marbles_ , _Jean_. I am in danger of losing my wife, my children, my home in France, my sanity, my job, my faith, and my _life_. If you will not help me, I will do it on my own.” Roughly, he releases the baffled capo, staring at the Frenchman with wide, terrified eyes.

“Alright. Okay, Marq, you got it.” Laurens sighs, smoothing his collar out. He sounds distant, staring at Lafayette wearily. “I’ll help you.”

Sitting back, he rubs his thumb over the initials of his lovely wife, carved into the handle, and sighs. He feels his heart break more and more, the longer he is from home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had too much fun with Laf & Burr's Starbucks orders.   
> I had too much fun with Alex & Wash's scene, which is basically me & my gf (I am Alex)  
> I love writing for you guys.   
> Leave a comment & stay tuned! xox
> 
> (ps, that poem Alex was reciting is a fragment from her collection, "If Not, Winter" by Sappho.)


	16. Intermission

George has fallen asleep, hand twined in Hamilton’s locks, heavy chest heaving, as he snores lightly. Hamilton, however, has not forgotten about the basement, or John Laurens, for that matter.

He has been greatly disturbed to find that George had reacted so oddly to Hamilton’s inquiries of the basement’s whereabouts. It makes his heart pound, just a bit, to know George could be hiding something from him. He doesn’t move, in case George is a light sleeper. He thinks of a plan—one that does not involve kidnapping.

Suddenly, he finds his hands digging through George’s pants pocket, in search for—

Bingo.

His phone.

He stares at the large, silver phone in his hand. He tilts it around, watches the light bounce off of the screen, and then looks back at George, who has remained asleep. He takes a deep breath.

Surely George has nothing to hide. And he doesn’t distrust him enough to go through his phone, but…

Then again, he has had exes cheat on him, in the past, and he has had friends try to kill him. He imagines the danger he could have saved himself, if he’d just went through their phones.  

He figures why not, and turns the screen on.

He isn’t surprised to see that Washington hadn’t bothered to change the wallpaper from the default setting, a hot air balloon drifting up into a clear blue sky. He frowns. He’ll have to change that.

He slides the camera app open, from the bottom of the screen, and proceeds to take multiple selfies with the sleeping George, who has a resting bitch face, even in slumber. He takes several, one of him smiling, one of him kissing George’s cheek, and another of him snuggled up, under George’s chin, looking content. He smiles, at the result, as he swipes through the pictures. He plans on sending all of these to himself.

He then remembers that he has to unlock George’s phone, to do so, and remembers that George would, in fact, have a password. _Of course he would_.

When he presses the home button, the phone vibrates slightly, with _INCORRECT PASSWORD_ , and Hamilton grins. He takes George’s right hand (he is right-handed, if Hamilton remembers correctly) and presses his thumb to the home button.

It sounds like a lock unclicking when all of the apps swoosh into view, and Hamilton drops the man’s hand as he stares at his mediocre background. First, he makes an effort to change the wallpaper, but realizes George probably wouldn’t be too happy about the “invasion of privacy.” If he drove from Philly back to New York for his basement, Hamilton is sure he’d drive from California to New York for his phone.

He moves on, to send the pictures to himself. Scrolling through the contacts, he comes across the names,

**Abby**

**Alex♥ ♥ ♥**

**Ben Franklin**

**Cadence V.**

**Connecticut (BT)**

**Dad**

**Friedrich von Steuben**

**Gilbert Lafayette**

**Georgia (LH)**

**James Madison**

**James Monroe**

**John Laurens**

**Mom**

**Nat Greene**

**Rochambeau**

**Thomas Jefferson**

**Thomas Payne**

**Virginia (ZH)**

The rage in his chest is unrecognizable.

 _John Laurens_?

He drops the phone, and his mouth gapes. He taps on the name (and George has no picture for him. Of course.) and goes to the messages.

 

 **John Laurens  
** 15 November 2016 ****  
_any word yet?  
            _ no.   
_itte call me when you get it_  
            I will.

23 December 2016

_yo marry xmas, man  
            _ it’s “merry”  
_huh?  
            _ it’s “merry” not “marry” & it isn’t even Christmas yet  
_can you just say thank you??  
            _ thank you, John.   
5 January 2017  
  
_you lol  
            _ what the fuck is that  
_a meme_  
            do not text me again

Hamilton frowns. That’s it? A couple of spelling errors and the dankest meme of all time?

That’s _it_?

They’ve only had three conversations, apparently, and none of it is suspicious. But it’s still inexcusable. John Laurens is the enemy.

George has 47 unopened messages, which annoys Hamilton. He gets another idea.

He texts John,

meet me in Highland park tonight @ 11pm   
_what color is the sky?_

Hamilton figures it’s some sort of trick question, to test George’s identity, so he exits the messages and searches George’s phone for the question on the keyword search bar. He finds, with messages from Thomas Jefferson and Georgia, that the appropriate response is “violet.”

So he texts back,

            Violet.   
_alright, chief. See ya at 11_

Chief? Clearly, that’s a nickname applicable to anything, but Hamilton’s jaw grates.

Quickly, he erases the messages and puts George’s phone back into his pocket.

Yes, he _will_ certainly see John Laurens at 11. He just needs to convince George to help him, unless the man wants to get his dick copped off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, before you say anything, I will say YES THIS CHAPTER WAS EXTREMELY SHORT.   
> I wanted to give you guys something fun and humorous, but also something like a "cliff hanger" while I worked some other stuff out, elsewhere. 
> 
> Second of all, I need someone to draw the trilogy of selfies Alex & George took. (I imagine GW was forced to make a Snapchat by Alex or Laf, who made it for him, only to take pictures of him with the filters lol)
> 
> Third of all, I just wanna say, I love all of my readers so, so, SO much and I really appreciate the kindness you all share with me, when you leave feedback. It really brightens my day, to know that so many people take the time to build my confidence when it comes to this sort of thing! It's seriously so flattering and humbling to write for you guys. I tell my girlfriend literally ALL THE TIME how much I appreciate you guys (she can testify to that). I'm still adjusting to this fast paced world of AO3, and I hope that some of you are inspired to write! I couldn't ask for a better group of readers. You guys are seriously the best!
> 
> Drop a comment! I appreciate every comment, every kudos, every message on Tumblr, and every hit! I love you all so much! Until next time!


	17. Saint Anne

Lafayette’s headache has not simmered down, throughout the day, the way he thought it would. The way it usually does. He’s terrified of prescription medication, so he doesn’t take any, but he figures if he could just find someone to take his anger out on, he should be fine. But that isn’t really the case, because it isn’t like him to snarl at strangers or be impolite to waitresses. He always tries to tip them extra if they’re sweet, or look too young to be working, in fact. Sometimes they’re assholes, but he doesn’t usually mind. At least they bring him his iced half-caff, ristretto, venti, four pump, sugar-free, cinnamon dolce soy skinny latte.

He massages his temples, behind the bar. He had accidentally gotten his cast wet in the shower a few days ago, and now his arm is going to smell horrendous when he removes his cast. Perfect. His Beyoncé record fell off the wall, and the glass frame shattered. Perfect. His favorite slippers are ruined. Perfect.

Adrienne’s umbrella is leaning against a stool in his corner, where he’d placed it, upon coming in for his shift, at 5pm. He serves drinks with a smile, participating in idle conversation with his patrons. Lafayette loves serving drinks to people, acting as relief. He loves to be a solution for people, no matter how bad the consequences might be. Some nights, his shifts are with Benjamin, and he gets to flirt with the waiter when no one is looking. Some nights, they close early and go home together.

He looks out, into the crowd of recent divorcees and relaxed sports fans, watching rugby on the flatscreens. Nights like these, Alex would waltz in, slamming a pile of folders down in front of Lafayette, proudly declaring “CASE CLOSED!” or seething about Capet’s orders, or Hercules’ slow walking. The world hasn’t been the same since Capet was murdered.

Since Capet was murdered, everything has slowly been falling apart. At least in Lafayette’s world.

“Hey,” a gruff voice distracts him, and he looks up, immediately grinning ear-to-ear, by reflexes of him being a bartender. No one can usually tell if it’s fake. He sees it’s Hercules, and his smiles falls.  The giant continues, “Uh…can I sit?”

Lafayette pushes himself off of the bar, walks to the shelves behind him to grab what Hercules always orders—scotch. “ _Mais oui_. You are the customer, _non_?”

“Lafayette, we need to talk,” Hercules says, face tightening as he sits.

“About what?” Lafayette asks briskly, pouring about an ounce into a glass, and sliding it over to Hercules. He doesn’t feel like talking much, truthfully. He’d rather just go home and sleep forever.

“These past weeks.”

“And what about them?” Lafayette frowns, looking up from twisting the cap back onto the bottle. What is there to say?

Hercules is becoming visually irritated, and he sighs, ignoring the drink. “Listen to me. I’m going to get Alex.”

Lafayette looks up, mortified. “But… _le Général_ …He would not allow for it, Hercules. You cannot think this is a good idea.”

“That’s where I take credit for it, Laf,” Hercules says simply. “I become made, and sworn into the Syndicate as an official member. You get back on the General’s good side. Alex is out of the picture, for good. Everybody’s happy.”

Lafayette feels his eyes tear up, and he wishes the General would smile at him, the way he used to. He treated Lafayette as his own son, once. Now all he sees is a _failure_ , because of fucking _Alex_. Everything was fine before him. Now he doesn’t even have the slightest affections from the General, as he once did. Because it’s a double edged sword—how can he kill Alex if he is the object of the General’s affections? Would the General love him more for being so brave? Or would he hate him for killing his love? “You cannot kill Alex. _Le Général_ would be all to the pieces. He would kill me, you, and probably many others if you took away that boy.”

“Wait,” Hercules frowns, leaning in. “You don’t _actually_ think he cares about Alex, do you?”

He hadn’t considered this. Why would he not? Greene said what they have is genuine, and he can see the General is as smitten as a lovesick kitten. But—could he just be acting? For _Alex’s_ sake? His face lights up immediately, and he leans in, toward Hercules. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, isn’t he using Alex as inside intel for the Capet Case? Like, seeing what he knows? And then using that to his advantage?” Hercules’ own face falls. “Wait… is that not what he’s doing?”

“I know not, dearest Hercules,” Lafayette grins. Of course. The General is a _genius_! He would never just walk into a trap without a plan. Ever the mastermind, his General is. Lafayette is in higher spirits, and his heart feels lighter. He feels 10 years younger, and his smile is easily spread onto his face so well that he feels invincible. “But I am sure he is certain of his plans! It is up to _us_ to assist him during this time of his need! We must be swift and _helpful_! Do not kill _le Jambon, Hercule._ Let him live. _Le Général_ will figure out what to do with him.”

Hercules’ face twists into one of confusion. “So…am I still in trouble?”

Lafayette’s grin brightens. “Hercules, you have always been my favorite soldier. What do you say we go down to _Ad Hoc_ and have a few drinks, and relax, _oui_?”

Finishing his glass quickly, the soldier hops to his feet.

The thing about Lafayette is that he is seldom in a bad mood. These last few weeks have really just been taking a toll on him. Hercules follows Lafayette out of the door, who has gotten Sammy to take his position at the bar. Lafayette is a gracious man, most days, with a bright smile and kind eyes. But when he gets stressed, another side of him comes out entirely, and he’s a different person.

Hercules is glad to be back in his good graces, even for just a moment. He doesn’t bother to ask any questions or do anything that could potentially disturb the lighthearted atmosphere. He just wants to drink with Lafayette and Laurens again, like he used to. It makes him nervous to think about Alex’s future. He needs to get him out of the country, away from the General. He doesn’t know how, but he has to, and Alex will have to listen, because Hercules is his only friend, he rationalizes as Lafayette sings the French National Anthem at the top of his lungs in the car. But what if he doesn’t listen? Then what? Does he let the General keep using him? Does he kill the General? _For Alex_? He gets that thought out of his head immediately. Hercules would be strung up a flag pole by his dick if he so much as attempted to look at the General the wrong way.

He rubs his face, staring at the world pass by as the sun continues to set.

He knows what John would tell him. ‘Do what you gotta do, man.’ That’s all. Not helpful.

John usually isn’t helpful with this kind of thing, anyway. John lives in bliss.

When Hercules and Lafayette get to _Ad Hoc_ , John isn’t in yet, but Lafayette saunters off to greet a few of his capo buddies while Hercules sneaks off to talk to the Schuylers.

“Hercules!” Eliza looks up from her martini, stands to give Hercules a kiss on the cheek, followed by Angelica and Peggy. “What brings you by?”

“I wanted to apologize for my partner’s behavior in your café today,” he says sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Bad day.”

Angelica laughs. “It’s no problem at all, Hercules. Come, sit. Have a drink with us!”

Knowing the Schuylers, Hercules is safe. A while ago, he did a little bit of grit work for Senator Phillip Schuyler, and now he’s—well, Phil is now in debt to Hercules, in a way. The girls have always been kind to the soldier, though. He enjoys their company.

He sits, between Eliza and Peggy, across from Angelica, who hands him a glass of wine. He takes a courteous sip, and sets it aside. Okay, now for the real reason he’s here. “Hey, I need advice,”

“Always,” Eliza grins.

“Well,” he considers it, and looks between Eliza and Peggy as he speaks. “I have a friend, and he’s in a pretty bad situation. He’s a really nice guy, but I think he’s in a toxic relationship?”

Angelica frowns, and she puts her drink down. “Go on.” He notices that the atmosphere has completely shifted, and Eliza’s grip on her glass is tight as she watches him talk. The air is solemn and tense now. Clearly, the Schuylers take this very seriously.

“Well, I think… his boyfriend is using him? I don’t know, he’s… it’s like,”

“A power imbalance?” Angelica asks, seeming to get impatient.

“The guy he’s dating is older, yes. But, it’s political, and I know it isn’t gonna end well. So I need to sneak him out of the country. But he’s not going to listen to me, he has no idea,” Hercules admits, staring at the carpet. “How do I tell him, without _telling him_?”

“That’s all?” Peggy asks, after a moment of silence.

“That’s all,” Hercules shrugs. “The gist of it, at least. Uh, I don’t really know the details, but that’s… that’s it.”

“You need to be straight up with him,” Angelica shrugs. “If you honestly think he’s in danger, you need to tell him.”

“Sugar coating it won’t help,” Eliza says simply. “What kind of politics?”

“Mob politics.”

Peggy whistles as she averts her eyes, Angelica’s jaw drops, and Eliza scoots away from Hercules. The sudden discord alarms him, and he frowns. “What?”

“Smuggling him out of the country isn’t going to save him,” Angelica says oddly. “You, of all people, should know that. Mob politics aren’t a joke, Hercules.”

“No, if I can get him out of the General’s r—”

“The _General_?” Eliza hisses, eyes wide in horror. She creeps closer back to Hercules and asks, “Hercules, your friend is the detective, isn’t he?”

He doesn’t answer, just sighs. “Can you help me, or not?”

The girls exchange glances.

Slowly, Eliza asks, “Are you sure this is something you want to do, Hercules?”

“You could be executed for this, it’s like treason,” Peggy informs him. She fails to mention that they _all_ could be. Executed, that is. Conspiring against the mob is worse than conspiring against the Government. Government, you get jail time for life, but the mob is a different ballgame, entirely. Mob executions are some of the most inhumane ways to die.

He’s still silent as he considers it.

Alex has always been his only friend. He can’t stand the idea of watching the General throw him away the way everyone else has. He folds his lips and nods. “Let’s do it.”

* * *

 

“Let’s go to the park tonight, George,” Hamilton suggests, swinging his feet from atop the kitchen island. “I heard the park is beautiful at night.”

“The park is filled with creeps and bats.”

“Are there bats in New York?” Hamilton inquires, watching George take food out of the fridge to prepare for dinner. He just needs to easily convince George to kidnap John Laurens with him. But how?

“I think there are. And don’t you have work tomorrow?”

“I’d love to go to the park tonight, George. Now either I’m going alone, or you’re coming with me.” It sounds more aggressive than Hamilton had intended, so he smiles to punctate.

“What’s this about, Alexander?” George asks, beginning to chop up carrots, paying no mind to his love. He has a kitchen towel slung over his shoulder, in his navy blue sweater. Hamilton has been reduced to George’s old t-shirt and his boxers, watching the man cook for him, with a glass of bourbon handy. It’s like a dream. Better than the first time George cooked for him, because now they’re more familiar. It feels more domestic, and Hamilton could just imagine _this_ being his life.

“Nothing,” he hums, with a shrug.

“Are you still trying to kidnap that guy?”

Hamilton frowns. “If I am, you’re going to help me.”

George glances over his shoulder at the boy, throwing him a _fuck-you-no-I’m-not_ face which really only ever proves to be George’s neutral expression. “No. I’m not. And you’re not going to kidnap him, either.”

“Yes I am,” Hamilton says simply.

“Alex, it’s too early in the relationship to pull stunts like this,” George groans, from his place by the stove. “Maybe in twenty years, I’ll help you kidnap someone. _Maybe_.”

“In twenty years, you’ll be dead, and I’d’ve remarried,” Hamilton teases when George scoffs.

“How old do you think I _am_?” the man turns to Hamilton, approaching him slowly, until he’s hovering over him, on the kitchen island. Hamilton doesn’t notice that he still has the knife.

“Mm, maybe well over the hill,” Hamilton whispers against George’s lips, slinging his arms around his neck as George brushes their lips together.

“Oh yea?” he purrs, voice dropping into low register as his left hand finds Hamilton’s waist, and he presses him forward until Hamilton’s legs wrap around George’s waist. “And how old do I feel?”

Hamilton giggles, and his heart stutters when he feels George’s cock brush against his inner thigh. He doesn’t know what he did to turn him on already, but his mouth drops open and George’s teeth find Hamilton’s bottom lip, tugging on it just a bit before kissing him wetly.

Their crotches brush and the friction is too much to handle. Hamilton’s mouth gapes and George continues to grind against him, gasping into his open mouth. Hamilton whines, nails digging into George’s biceps, begging him to keep going, as he holds his legs open. The image of what they must look like makes Hamilton flush bright red, and he earns a throaty moan from George, who hasn’t taken his eyes off of him.

Surprisingly, George is more of a talker than Hamilton is. He muttering against Hamilton’s lips how good he is, and how pretty he looks, all spread out for George this way. How sweet he tastes, how much he wants to fuck him, right here, on the counter. It makes Hamilton’s head spin.

“You look so fucking good in my shirts, baby,” Washington growls, bucking his hips harder, and Alex’s eyes roll back. “You want me to fuck you, right here? You wanna come on the counter, like a slut?”

“Yesyesyesyes,” Alex babbles, his eyes tearing up. “Please, I’ll do whatever you want, Mister,”

Washington’s growl comes from his stomach, and he feels his cock strain against his sweatpants. Alex must have noticed, because he sort of smirks, and says,

“ _Mister_. You like that. Is it yours?” His eyes are half lidded and glazed over.

“ _You’re_ mine,” he huffs, kissing at Alex’s jawline. He has big plans, starting with fucking this boy on every piece of furniture he owns. He nips down Alex’s neck, loving the way he squeals and rolls his boy against Washington’s begging him to keep going, thighs tensing. When he gets to Alex’s cock, the musky aroma hits him, and his pupils become full-blown. His eyes flick up to Alexander’s as he mouths his cock through his boxers, and Alex’s gaping is enough to make him want to swallow the boy’s length down. He keeps it slow, and deliberate, letting his eyes linger on Alex’s as his tongue swirls down the shaft, and laps at his head. While he does, his left hand snakes up Alex’s (Washington’s) shirt, skimming over his soft belly, squeezing gently as Alex presses into his touch.

“More,” he whispers, trying to rut his hips into Washington’s mouth. And, Washington lets him. At this point, he’s in no mood to joke around—he wants to suck his boy off, plain and simple. He lets Alex out of his boxers, holding his mouth open, watching the boy’s chest heave as he waits.

So, Washington indulges him. He licks up the shaft with broad strokes, using the flat of his tongue. He kisses the head, and swirls his tongue around it, and Alex moans,

“ _Jesus_ , stop fucking teasing!” His words are spat through gritted teeth, his fists balled up in the shirt to keep it from falling over his body.

Washington’s eyes darken when he realizes he’s got Alex into a corner, so he takes him into his mouth, and into the back of his throat. Washington’s heard he’s pretty good at giving head. It’s a skill he takes pride in, when it counts. Right now, the boy is writhing, begging Washington to keep going through ragged breaths and pinpricked tears in his eyes.

“Don’t come yet, Alex,” Washington hums, pulling away, and getting to his feet, to meet Alex with a kiss. He has completely forgotten about dinner, as his hand drops to Alex’s cock, playfully stroking it while Alex moans into Washington’s mouth. “Get on your knees.”

* * *

 

“I think,” Thomas says from the hotel bathroom. “That Washington knew what he was getting himself into. And look, I love Washington, and I respect him, but,” the sink turns off, and Thomas emerges, in his pajamas with his toothbrush. James sits at the desk with his iPad and glasses, watching his husband maneuver around the room. “Just think about it. Our families have been rivals since the 20th century. Don’t you think I wouldn’t mind if _Jefferson_ became the single most powerful family in New York?”

“It’s not that easy, Tom,” James sighs. “If the Washingtons are knocked out of power, _centuries_ of Governmental infrastructure will be undone. And you’re not going to be the most powerful in New York, because there will be a vacuum of power, and you’ll have families invading, trying to take his spot.”

“Washington’s a smart guy. And I bet his boyfriend is a smart guy, too. But James, if he really knows about the damage, why would he stay with that guy?” Thomas asks, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “If _Washington_ ends up causing a vacuum of power that means _my_ family is at risk, too.”

“The country will fall apart.” James takes his glasses off. “We have to help him.”

“Help him?” Thomas scoff. “James are you serious?”

“When am I not serious?”

“What, so we’re helping _all_ of our enemies now? You want me to send New Jersey half of our fortune? You want me to go drink with the Carolinas and thank them for all of their _support_?” Thomas glares.

“Washington isn’t the enemy. You have to remember that at one point, your families were _inseparable_ , Thomas,” James joins him, on the bed, looking a very annoyed Thomas in the eye. “The Washington-Jefferson Association _ruled_ this country. It was the backbone, the heart, the lungs, and the brain of the United States. It was singlehandedly the most effective, intimidating and wealthy organization in the world. And do you know what that got America? Leading production, booming economy, dedicated and _loyal_ citizens. A regime of greatness that has impacted _today_. The Washington-Jefferson legacy should not be just a _memory_ , Thomas. You and Washington can remake history. Overthrow Congress. Strangle the Government back into submission. You don’t have to live in fear anymore. I’ll be there, every step of the way.”

Thomas’ eyes are tearing up, and he smiles. “You really think that would work?”

“Offer your assistance in helping Washington secure his relationship with the detective,” James schemes. “Once the two of you have formed a pact, you can combine your armies. I’ll meet with his advisor, and we can go from there. Start by moving the armies south, and we’ll take out Jersey, Connecticut, and Maryland. After that, the southern armies will either surrender, or we can initiate a mob war. Another one.”

“Would that be smart?” Thomas asks, voice low. Mob wars get bloody, very quickly. That is to be expected.

“It would be the best decision. But I’m sure, once we take out all of the Northern mobs, the South won’t want a fight. We’ll have our armies go South. We’ll take their land and their fortunes. We’ll kill the bosses and their heirs, just to be safe.”

“How do you know Washington will agree with us?” Thomas asks skeptically. It sounds like a good plan, but James is forgetting Washington.

“If he wants to keep his head and his lover’s, he’ll agree to take down Congress with us. We’ll keep it fair and stay true to our word. We’re going to rebuild the Washington-Jefferson Association. We’ll meet with him, when we get back in New York, tomorrow.”

Thomas feels a grin stretching across his face. “Well done, James. Now take your fucking clothes off.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S ABOUT THAT TIME AGAIN WHERE EVERYONE IS TOO CLOSE TO EVERYONE ELSE!!!  
> I'll see you guys next time, my lovely readers! Drop a comment, if you please :')


	18. No New Friends

Highland Park is just as George had described it would be, at 11pm. Bats flutter overhead, and creepy men wait on park benches. He should have been more specific when he told Laurens where to meet him, Hamilton realizes. But he sends George ahead, anyway, to capture Laurens’ attention. He reckons George would not alarm little Laurens, but may in fact, welcome his presence. He isn’t sure what to expect. He brought duct tape, handcuffs, and bottles of water. He assumes it would be easier if he knew what he was doing. George made him think the plan through all the way. Figured he needed some sort of constraints, which he hadn’t thought of before. He’d asked George to approach him casually, and speak good-naturedly with him, while Hamilton waited in the car.

George reasons, “There would be no need to use excessive force.”

Hamilton shrugs. “Fine. But I’m handcuffing him when he gets in. Just so you know.”

And so, Hamilton wanders back to the car, and watches George approach the park, on his own. He’s in a wool black overcoat, striding carefully to a familiar figure. He walks with dignity, with his head high, even when no one is watching. He sees Laurens smile when he spots George. He can’t hear what they are saying, but he watches as George speaks to him, and Laurens laughs, before George gestures back to the car. Bingo.

 

“G-wash!” Laurens grins. “How’s it goin’?”

“I need you to come back to the car with me,” Washington says solemnly. “Act natural.”

“What?” Laurens asks, his smile falling. “Boss, what’s going on?”

“I’m not your boss. That’s an order. Follow me,” he smiles, gesturing with the swoop of his arm. “Don’t fuck it up, or you’ll find yourself without a dick or legs.”

“So, what do I do?” Laurens asks nervously, but he attempts to stay lighthearted.

“Act horrified. It’ll give Alexander satisfaction. Your father is a friend of mine. That is how I know you. Nothing more.”

“Alright. Um, what am I in for?”

“No harm will come to you. You have nothing to worry about,” Washington instructs, and when they reach the car, he unlocks the car door, humming a jazz tune. Laurens gets in on the passenger side, singing the lyrics—Sinatra, as always—and as Washington turns the engine over, he is suddenly frightened by Laurens’ choked shriek.

He whips his head around to find that Alex is strangling him, a grocery bag tight around Laurens’ neck, pulling him back against the seat. Laurens is struggling to breathe, clawing at his neck, and horridly, Washington yells, “Alexander!”

He can see Alex’s face, flushed red in effort, is narrowed in concentration. At Washington’s words, he loosens his grip on Laurens, frowning.

“I said _no excessive force_.”

Laurens’ face is a bright red, and he’s coughing, trying to breathe right. “What’s going on?” he rasps, scrambling to get to the door. Washington promptly locks it with the master control panel at his disposal. “John,” he says, voice grave. “Relax.” He’s praying the young capo stays true to character. But Laurens is loyal and Washington has no doubt he will do as he’s asked.

* * *

 

Thomas lays snuggled up under James’ chin, who is dozing off fairly quickly. Well, Thomas is full of energy. He waits until he hears James’ light snoring, but knows he’s still conscious, and says,

“We should get a baby.”

James’s eyes flutter open, and he drowsily asks, “What?”

Thomas rolls over, so that his chin is resting on James’ sternum, and he’s looking him in the eye. James’ hands stray to twirl Thomas’ loose, wild curls around his fingers. Thomas repeats himself, his slender fingers combing through the wiry hair on his husband’s chest. “We should get a baby.”

“Why?”

“If we’re thinking about rebooting the Washington-Jefferson Association, we should at least have an heir.” Too many times have regimes faced the sheer reality of teetering on nonexistence after the boss had been assassinated, before scrambling to find the nephew of a third cousin’s grandson to take the throne. Jefferson, nor Madison, have nephews of a third cousin’s grandson, as far as they know.

James shrugs. Fair. “But, Tom, we’re not just talking about finding an heir. We’re talking about starting a _family_.”

“So?”

“ _So_? Are you _ready_ for that?”

“For what, exactly? A kid? Or the responsibilities that come with that?” Thomas narrows his eyes. Truth be told, he’s wanted a kid for some time. But now he has an excuse to ask. “Because I’ve always wanted to be a father.”

James sighs. “Alright. And how would you want to…?” His eyes scan the ceiling. “Adoption? Or a surrogate?”

Thomas shrugs. “I don’t know. Adoption sounds nice, but I’ve kind of wanted to see our baby with your eyes.”

James chuckles, closes his eyes. “So you really wanna do this?”

Thomas lays his cheek to James’ chest, sighing. “After everything is over, we can consider it again.”

“After what is over?” James asks, looking down at him. “After we finish setting up the Washington-Jefferson Association again?”

“Yea. I feel like it would be too much at once to care about a kid and the kid’s safety, and focus on a mob war at the same time.”

“That’s just it. And when the kid is born, and the kid becomes a man, you’ll _still_ have to worry about his safety, during mob wars. One of the most important responsibilities, I might add,” James advises. “You can’t just decide you want a kid, and then get one.”

Thomas rolls his eyes. “We’ve been married for over ten years, Jim. I’m gonna be 36 this year. I want to leave a _legacy_.”

James pecks a kiss onto Thomas’ head, and sighs. “I know, Tom. I know.” He closes his eyes again, but falling asleep isn’t as easy as it was, only moments ago.

* * *

 

Hercules and the Schuyler Sisters make for a pretty good team. While Lafayette gets shitfaced at the bar, with his capos, Hercules schemes with the girls. They can’t be too loud, of course, though one might just assume they’re planning a vacation.

“St. Croix. It’s in the Caribbean.”

“We can’t send him back to where he _came_ from. First of all, they’ll be looking for him there, too. Second, I don’t think he’d want to go back,” Angelica says.

“Alex speaks fluent French. We can send him somewhere where they speak French,” Hercules supplies.

“What about Europe? France? Surely they would protect him,”

“Actually,” Eliza says, “The Jeffersons have extensive influence in the French mobs. And I think if the General were desperate enough, he’d seek out the Jeffersons and ask them to help.”

“Okay, so what about the English mobs?” Peggy asks. “They wouldn’t help the Syndicate or the Jeffersons after… well, the Revolution. I think if we smuggled Alexander in there, he would be safe from American mobs. I can get Sammy to whip him up a new everything. No sweat.”

“But Alex would turn into a bargain tool if it got that bad,” Hercules frowns. “If the British mobs want something from the American ones, it turns into ‘I’ll give you this guy if you give me X-amount in USD, to convert into pounds.’” That would certainly put Alex in danger.

“What about Australia?” Eliza asks.

“Australian mobs would help the Syndicate. Without a question.”

“Brazil?”

“Brazilian officials would kill Alexander on arrival,” Angelica frowns. “You know how they are about mob politics.”

“You mean there isn’t _anywhere_ he’s safe?” Hercules pleads, his heart crumbling. “Canada?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Eliza chides gently. “Canada is far too close to New York. You’d be basically _giving_ him to the General. All is not yet lost,”

“Keep your focus,” Peggy reminds him, and she continues to think, sipping her wine sparingly. “I can still ask Sammy to make him new a new ID, birth certificate, social security number, and passport. When we figure this out, his new identity will already have been made.”

“Yes, but _where_ is he going to go?” If he’s being completely honest with himself, Hercules thought it would be a lot easier than this. Mob politics are like spider webs. Each thread is a family, and they’re all interconnected, to form the entire web, holistically. But the web would be perfectly functional if one thread were to be replaced. Or the entire web, for that matter.

“We’ll think of something. In the meantime, go entertain your boss,” Angelica advises him, and he turns to see Lafayette dancing drunkenly on top of the bar counter, his tie loosely undone, his hair a mess, and his cuffs unbuttoned and pushed up to his elbows. His hips are swaying, and he certainly is drawing attention. Hercules is thoroughly bemused at the spectacle.

He turns back to the girls, bids his farewell, and heads off to see to his boss, who is now stripping for very interested men and women, swarming around him, calling to them to leave.

* * *

 

Hamilton is pacing back and forth in the basement, with George sitting near the staircase, sipping bourbon while he reads. John Laurens is duct taped and handcuffed to a metal chair, rather sloppily, as Hamilton waves a riding crop around, to indicate that he will use it as need be.

George looks up at him. “Alex, put the riding crop down.”

“What for? I got it from your room.”

George’s glare could melt steel beams, and Hamilton’s grin makes John chuckle.

“You—you folks,” he slurs slowly, his head hanging over his chest, hair messily straying from the ponytail he keeps it in. “Y’all are _kinky bastards_.” He’s struggling to speak, his head lolling, eye glazed when Hamilton yanks him by his hair, to look him in the eye. “You’re cute… when you’re mad, Hammy,”

Hamilton’s eyes narrow. “Answer the question. _Do you know the Marquis de Lafayette_?”

John stares at Hamilton for another beat, and George goes back to his book.

“You can’t make me talk,” John admits, finally, and Hamilton’s grip on his hair tightens. His face screws in pain, and he gasps out a chuckle. “I should warn you. I like it when my guys pull my hair.”

Anger and frustration welling up, a flustered Hamilton lets John go, and groans loudly as he walks away. George rises, sets his book aside, and walks up to where John is seated, face flushed, neck bruised, hair a mess, eyes glassy. His chest is heaving as he stares up at George, but the captive speaks first,

“What the fuck you lookin’ at, old man?”

Hamilton’s rage is just at its boiling point, but George’s arm shoots out to keep Hamilton from slapping the capo. “I need you to think before you speak, young man. Do you know this man?” He shows him a mugshot of the Marquis, who looks charming, as always.

John’s eyes flick up to meet his, defiantly. “I ain’t seen him.”

“That’s not what the fuck he asked, is it?” Hamilton’s behind him, leaning down to hiss in his ear. His hand is snaked into John’s hair again, holding his head steady and firmly, to look directly at the picture. “Take a good, _long_ look.”

“I don’t know the guy,” John groans. “I don’t. Okay? Never heard of him, never seen him.”

Hamilton finds that very difficult to believe. His angry eyes flick up to George’s calm ones. “He’s a caporegime in the Washington Syndicate.”

“Oh, for god’s sake,” John rolls his eyes. “There ain’t no _Washington Syndicate_.”

“There isn’t a mob?” George’s voice cuts in. A steady contrast between Hamilton’s hostility and John’s slurred speech. “What is there?”

“What there is everywhere,” John says evenly. “Family. Friends.”

“So he’s in the Washington _Family_?” Hamilton concludes, tugging on John’s hair again.

“You seen too many movies, Hammy.” John chides. “The cops are obsessed with findin’ a mafia that don’t _exist_.”

“I heard you were a capo as well,” Hamilton sneers.

“Oh yea?” John laughs. “And where’d you hear that?”

“I’ll ask the questions,” Hamilton snaps. “Who’s your boss? The General? What’s he like?”

“There ain’t a General, and I ain’t in the mob.”

“I bet he made you his _bitch_ ,” Hamilton spits, venom in every syllable.

“Aye, _fuck you_ , you know?” John growls.

“You’re so fuckin’ _whipped_ , you can’t even talk about him without shaking. Look at you, trembling like a dog.” Hamilton swats a hand at him.

“I ain’t sayin’ shit.”

“I bet Lafayette has you on a leash, too,” Hamilton snarls, circling around John menacingly, appraising him. “You’re everyone’s bitch, aren’t you, John?” The capo’s face is flushed red, and he can see that he’s visibly irritated. He looks to find George, watching the scene from afar, eyes dark with want. A newfound thrill is in his blood, and his eyes drop back down to John. Very closely to his ear, he murmurs, “But I bet you like that, don’t you?”

John shudders at Hamilton’s breath on his ear, and it’s very satisfying to watch. He twists his hand into John’s soft hair, drags it back to expose his freckled throat, which is marred and bruised from earlier. His eyes glide over his arched throat, up to his parted lips, and to his honey-brown eyes staring back at Hamilton, eyelashes fluttering as his breath becomes more and more uneven.

Hamilton isn’t sure what he’s doing. Maybe it’s the desperation for an answer. Maybe it’s the way George was watching them. Maybe it’s his frustration at John. Maybe he just fucking _wants it_.

He can hear John’s arms thrashing at the cuffs behind him, struggling to pull his hands away, but Hamilton brushes his lips over John’s jawline, eyes flicking back up to George, who is now watching with full interest. The slight nod of his head, and that intense look in his eye urges Hamilton to continue. He licks his lips, and stands up straight, circling around John, watching him gasp for breath, head hanging over his chest again, as he regroups.

“You like it, don’t you?” Hamilton taunts. “When I pull your hair? Saw your cock jump when I choked you in the car. You like that too?” He leans down, behind John’s ear again, letting his hands slide down the capo’s chest, massaging his pecs under his sweater. “Answer me,”

“Y-yes,” John gasps, keening when Hamilton’s fingers dance over the forming bulge in his pants. “I love it,”

Hamilton’s teeth graze John’s neck as he tilts his head to the side, murmuring breathlessly at Hamilton’s kisses and biting. “I can choke you again,” Hamilton whispers against him. “Hm?” His eyes are back to George, and he realizes he’s performing for him. The way the man is sitting back in his chair, legs spread, eyes glinting under those heavy brows. Hamilton hides a smirk by nosing through John’s soft curls, loving the way the capo shudders underneath him.

He’s honestly trying to figure out what to do with the guy. He wants to make sure John doesn’t run, but he also wants the upperhand. His eyes float back to George and he gets an idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the author regrets everything and yet nothing, all the same. 
> 
> I was going to include the rest of the sex scene in this chapter, but I ended up taking it out and reserving it for later. :')


	19. Or...Maybe A Few New Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it took so long to update.  
> enjoy the GW/Lams threesome.

Hercules and Lafayette aren’t friends. Hercules isn’t sure if it’s their personalities that clash or their difference in rank, or just what they have to go through together on a regular basis that mutilates any chance of forming a bond that isn’t ripe with gang violence, trust issues, or potential assassination. And Hercules is okay with keeping his boss at arm’s length, and living contently.

But it’s nights like these where everything feels dangerously normal, and his boss is just a regular guy, and Hercules is not trying to become initiated into the Washington Syndicate, and Lafayette is not a bloodthirsty tyrant on a rampage to kill his best friend. It’s nights like these where Hercules could just imagine him, Lafayette, Alex, and John drinking together, singing drunkenly, sharing stories, getting into trouble, and feeling overwhelmingly triumphant. He could only imagine what that life would be like.

He takes another shot with an already-shitfaced-Marquis de Lafayette and sighs at the burn, cringing when the man claps him on the back.

“Ah, Hercules,” he purrs, breath heavy with liquor. He sits down next to Hercules, running, his hand up the giant’s back gently. He had been paying most of his attention to his glass, and then to his capos. He hadn’t minded Hercules’ company at all. Just like the way it was before Capet was murdered. Looking back, life was a lot simpler then. “ _Mon doudou_. Do you know that I adore you, Hercules?”

He chuckles, but doesn’t answer. It’s the liquor talking, and he knows it, even if Lafayette doesn’t.

“If I had my way,” Lafayette continues, gazing back at Hercules with lusted, glazed eyes. “You would not be in this, uh, _position_.”

“In what position?” he asks, shifting to look at Lafayette more closely. In terms of rank? Could the Marquis really be feeling good enough to give Hercules a promotion? His heart starts pounding at the sheer thought of it. Getting Alex out of the country safely, getting back on Lafayette’s good side, being able to provide better for his daughter, and moving up through the ranks? He tries to keep from smiling too big.

Lafayette swats a hand lazily to gesture to Hercules’ sitting. “You would be at home, in bed, _avec moi_ ,” he purrs, lips close to Hercules’ ear. The soldier feels his smile fall incredulously, and he moves from Lafayette’s touch. The capo doesn’t notice, only asks the other patrons,

“Where, oh where, has our _petite Jean_ gone?”

* * *

 

After ten minutes of rearranging, John is naked, with his arms handcuffed behind his back. He’s on George’s lap, whose fly is undone, but his erection is still concealed in his pants. John is facing Hamilton, who is lazily stroking his length through a condom, approaching John while George holds the capo’s legs open. A glorious sight to behold, where George’s shirt is hanging open, dick pressed inside his pants, watching from over John’s shoulder. John’s hair is messy, framing his pink face and red swollen lips. Beautiful.

Positioning himself at John’s entrance, Hamilton leans forward, lips against John’s, who is grinding back on George’s dick, and murmurs, “I can’t fucking stand you.”

This earns a breathy chuckle and something of a gasp when Hamilton starts to press forward, his dick slicking up and nudging John’s balls, who reels, arching his back against George. No doubt John is going to be a talker. When Hamilton is seated inside John, he moves to kiss George deeply, and relishes the way his man groans into his mouth, John nipping at his throat with his teeth. His hips swivel and he slams into John, the latter squealing. John can’t move to grip Hamilton, so the only way he can stay upright is sandwiched between his boss and the detective, balanced precariously on the General’s lap, while Hamilton is slamming into him. 

Honestly, John would be a fucking liar if he said he’d never fantasized about the General. But this really is better than he could have imagined. He loves the solid form behind him, hot dick pressed against his ass, rough hands keeping his legs spread for a fiery Hamilton. He moans quietly at the image they’ve created, and Hamilton’s hand is on his throat.

“Now answer me,” he growls, pressing onto the side of John’s neck, blocking his airways. He can see his eyes watering as he slams harder, eyes searching John’s.

“Choke me harder,” he pleads, and Washington lets his head tip back with a heavy sigh, his dick straining at the friction, loving how desperate the young capo sounds. “I m-met him at my bar,” John babbles. “French guy, they’re always fucking French,”

Washington has known Laurens for years, and he truly is an avid spirit. But this is new. He bites his lip, watching Alexander’s face as he fucks the boy on his lap. It’s focused, and angry, he can see he’s squeezing Laurens’ neck tightly, the latter reeling, his mouth gaping as Alex’s hips become less steady, and his rhythm falters. John’s ass is roughly grinding back onto Washington’s rock hard erection, and each time Alex thrusts into him, it’s rougher than it was before.

“Good boy,” he rumbles from his throat. His paces quickens, and his hands drop to Laurens’ thighs, while Washington’s hands find Laurens’ throat. Very easily, one of his hands fits tightly around the capo’s neck, and he can hear him choking as Alex degrades him with harsh words through rampant thrusts. He squeezes the hot skin tighter, and when he releases, Laurens’ whole body shakes as he takes his first breath, shuddering at the intake. He must be high as a fucking kite, right now.

Laurens is babbling nonsense, bleating weakly at the force of Alex’s ruthless hips, keening to him noisily, begging him to let him come.

“You’ll wait,” Washington growls in his ear as his nails sink into the young capo’s throat, and Laurens shrieks, his hips bucking to meet Alexander’s. Ah. He must have remembered his place just now. He spreads the boy’s legs wider, and Alex meets Washington in another kiss, moaning softly into it.

Alexander pulls out and comes on Lauren’s belly, striking him across the face, and grabbing him by the hair again, to look at him in the eye.

“Be good for George now,” he growls. “Tell me what I want to know.”

At that, Alex kneels, letting Washington’s heavy cock free from his pants. He chases it with his tongue, eyes flicking up to both John and Washington, who watch in awe. He rolls a condom onto the thick length, and kisses the head sweetly, slicking lube up Washington’s shaft. No one has touched John’s flushed cock, which is straining for attention, and Alex’s t-shirt just barely brushes it as he stands.

Washington lifts John onto his cock, sighing as the boy sinks down onto him. He’s heavier than Alex, but John begins bouncing on him, groaning at the size.

Fucking hell. He’s always thought John would be a cute fuck, but this is beyond what he’d imagined. He feels Alex’s small hands on his thighs, muttering to John about “taking that dick” and “begging like a good boy.” One of Washington’s hands find John’s waist, and the other is in his hair, using it as a leash, yanking when he misbehaves. Alex has taken the liberty of slowly jacking him off, watching his face when he gasps, kissing his thighs, and cooing up to Washington every so often about how good John looks.

He wishes he could see Alexander’s face right now, and he kisses John’s shoulder, biting hickies into the freckled flesh, muttering into his shoulder,

“If you say anything, you’re fucking _dead_ , Laurens.”

The capo nods, swallowing, and is lifted off of Washington before either of them finish.

He’s assuming Alex hadn’t heard or noticed, because Washington’s voice would be low enough for Alex to assume he was dirty talking, or he hadn’t heard it altogether. Either way, the detective is on his knees, curiously watching him rearrange the capo on his lap.

Hamilton’s view is sacred.

It’s a sight to behold, truly.

His man, looking powerful, sweaty and focused, pounding John’s brains out. Ah, John. Beautiful, vulnerable John. He wonders if he looks that helpless, at George’s mercy all the time, when they get into it. The very thought excites him, and he decides that it’s John’s turn to watch as he stands, and approaches the two.

John, flushed and discombobulated, looks up at Hamilton, before being set aside, and watching Hamilton climb into George’s lap. He makes sure to be graceful when he bends over, teasing George with tongue and teeth, swaying he hips, which sort of evokes a funny little, “Oh,” from George when their cocks brush. He meets him in a sloppy, wet kiss, and John’s cock twitches when Hamilton teases George’s cock at his entrance, slapping it roughly a few times, sighing at that rumble in George’s throat when he does.

And when he slides down, the eye contact the couple holds is the hottest John has yet seen, and it’s probably worth mentioning that he is a regular in threesomes. Hamilton’s mouth gapes, and George’s does too, a chemistry between them unmatched, and relentless. Watching them fuck is cinematic. Hamilton’s soft _ah’s_ and George’s harsh _fuck’s_ and their tempo is hypnotic.

John wishes they could do this more often.

By the end of the night, they have moved from the basement, and into Washington’s bedroom, when Laurens lay uncuffed, but in Hamilton’s arms, with his back to George’s chest. They lost count of the rounds, and never seemed to run out of condoms. Hell, John even got to fuck Hamilton when George got bored, and George watched them, eyes dark, focused intently on the way his lover cried out. He even blew John, and at one point, and at another point, John blew them at the same time, on his knees between the two of them.

Drifting off, Hamilton is snoring against his chest, and George taps him on the shoulder. He turns to look back at his boss as best he can.

“You tell no one about tonight.”

“No dip, Sherlock.”

“What?”

“No duh.”

George frowns to convey his lack of understanding.

John sighs, and translates, “Of course, boss.”

He looks like he’s about to say something else, but he stops himself. Finally, he just says, “Good work tonight. I’m proud you kept your guard up.”

“I had fun,” John grins. “We should do it more often.”

“I’m not always up to sharing,” George frowns.

John chuckles, turns over, and closes his eyes, falling asleep with his nose buried in Hamilton’s hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geez.   
> I'm sorry this update took so long, but it wasn't very easy to write, without making every sex scene sound the same. 
> 
> also, I drew GW as he would appear in Smoke Break, and you can find it on my Tumblr [here!](http://romaas-aesthetics.tumblr.com/post/148639814358/george-washington-as-he-appears-in-smoke-break) Please check that out :') 
> 
> and one more thing:   
> the next update will probably be sometime in September. I'm going out of town for the next month or so, and I won't really have time/space to write so I'm going to #TakeABreak for the time being. Smoke Break will be on hiatus until further notice. 
> 
> however, you can reach me ANY TIME and I will ALWAYS respond, if you wanna scream with/at me, you can reach me on Tumblr, as always! I love all of you, please stay tuned, and I will see you guys when I see you guys!


	20. The Restoration

Fridays aren’t Washington’s favorites. Fridays are his Mondays, and he can’t stand the people he must deal with. Fridays are busy, hectic, problematic, and loud. Sometimes he’s overstimulated in the midst of it, and he has a bad habit of shutting down. Washington likes peace and quiet, and prefers to be alone. On Fridays, he’s surrounded by noisy capos and advisors, escorted by Nat or, his security guys.

Today is Friday.

He rubs his face as he sits in the passenger seat of Nat’s car with Henry Knox in the backseat, on his way to the office building, which was a project/gift of the multibillionaire contractor, Jean Rochambeau. Rochambeau also owns a labor union that has strong ties to the Syndicate, which is how the two men became friends, in the beginning. Rochambeau’s union was run by one of his capos in the 80s, and Washington and Rochambeau clicked automatically upon meeting. They’ve been friends ever since. They now do business for each other, in an unspoken partnership.

Anyway, pleasantries aren’t Washington’s strong suit. He can’t talk about weather or what he had for dinner, or sports with people. He’d rather not speak at all. He’s bad at small-talk. He’s a business person, and he hates to beat around the bush, therefore many of the meetings are straight-to-the-point. One would think that would make the meetings shorter.

Quite the opposite.

Washington’s no-nonsense demeanor may make him seem intimidating, but people still tend to spoon-feed him bullshit. It drains a lot of energy, decoding the lies he is often told when his clients are scared or intimidated. He’s lied to on a regular basis, really, and his frustration overwhelms him.

As he enters the building, Nat and Knox behind him, giving him a rundown of his day, he’s bewildered by seeing the Jefferson bosses in the lobby, waiting on him, discussing something between the two of them. Washington stops and stares, and thankfully, they don’t see him. His mind is racing a million thoughts per minute, and his mouth is suddenly dry.

“Greene. Knox. Go reschedule my meetings for this morning,” he says absently, still staring at the two men in their coordinating suits. His teeth grind and he feels hostility welling up in his stomach. He plays it cool, instead. They’re probably going to ask why he left so suddenly yesterday. Knox and Greene wander off, doing as told. He watches them leave for a moment, and then his eyes fall to the two men, across the room.

He catches Jefferson’s gaze, and the man’s large smile forms immediately. Before Washington can process what to do, the couple is approaching him, and he decides that now wouldn’t be a good time to have a breakdown. He stays calm and collected, like any George Neal Washington should. His own smile precedes his words, and he’s met with Madison’s strong handshake, followed by Jefferson’s, whose hand is cold, but just as firm.

“What can I do for you gentlemen today?” Washington asks, looking at first at Jefferson, and then at Madison. Thank God his voice doesn’t waver.  

“We’d like to speak with you,” Jefferson responds, seeming to speak with all the energy in his body. He’s an animated man, surely. Madison doesn’t say anything, just stands beyond Jefferson with his chin raised and his hands tucked in his pockets. “It’d require privacy.”

“What is the nature of this meeting?” Washington asks oddly. Something is going on here. The two Jefferson bosses wouldn’t have just showed up at his headquarters without a plan, and that alarms him. “Should I call my advisor?” Von Steuben would know what to do.

“That’s unnecessary,” Madison’s voice is much deeper than Jefferson’s, and also a lot less annoying. “We would see you in your office.”

Dumbfounded, Washington’s only response is, “Of course.” He moves, to walk between the, leading them to the elevator. He can hear them speaking to each other behind him, but he doesn’t bother to try to listen. He waits on the elevator, bidding good morning to people who speak to him first. When they get to the 16th floor, Washington’s office takes up about half of the hallway, with a huge glass window facing the skyline. It’s grey, just like everything else Washington owns that isn’t black. It’s sleek, modern, and vaguely luxurious, the way the floors shine and the glass sculptures twinkle in the sunlight. It reminds him of his apartment in the city, but sometimes he misses Mount Vernon.

Jefferson and Madison look around as Washington heads to his desk, dropping his briefcase on his desk and his coat on the back of his chair. He sifts through envelopes on his desk for a moment, and after deciding they aren’t important, he ignores them, and continues to get comfortable while Jefferson and Madison admire the interior design. After putting his things in place, he sits down at his desk, and gestures for the Jefferson bosses to take a seat in the charcoal black armchairs facing his huge desk. He watches Jefferson’s face as he sits.

“Do you live here, or something?”

“Most nights,” Washington replies with an awkward chuckle. Here comes the small-talk.

“We requested this meeting because we have an important decision that we’d like to propose to you, and we’d appreciate it if you took time to consider it,” Madison says smoothly.

He’s grateful Madison cuts to the chase, but it’s a bit sudden. He frowns. “Which is?”

Jefferson speaks this time. “When America was born, there was a phoenix born with it, George Washington. It was fiery and passionate and it ruled this country with bones and blood and it was the most powerful bird in the world. But over the centuries, that phoenix slowly died, until the decedents of that holy bird were living in its ashes. But I think it’s time the phoenix rises from those ashes and reclaims this country.”

Washington’s face is priceless. The extended metaphor is what confuses him, at first, but then upon realizing the Jeffersons’ proposal, he has a hard time thinking of a response. So, he just blinks.

Madison glances at Jefferson, and clarifies, “By recreating the Washington-Jefferson Association, we can regain political influence and economic regulation.”

“We?” Washington frowns. “This country was built on an _oligarchy_ and _lies_.” He’s determined to see what game Jefferson and Madison are playing, and why they suddenly want to invest in restarting the family dynamic that once existed between the two of them. “In case you’ve forgotten, the Washington-Jefferson Association ended in _turmoil_. It caused this country an arm and a leg not to fall apart, and now the government wants us dead.”

“We’re not simple street gangs, Washington,” Jefferson says flatly. “We aren’t ordinary people. We didn’t start out that way. We shouldn’t end that way.”

“What are you trying to achieve?” Washington sits back, folds his hands.

Madison says, “Greatness. Restoration of the legacy. The Washington-Jefferson Association 2.0,”

The restoration sounds fun, and Washington would love to be the generation that helped to lead the Syndicate out of the weak, tainted image. He looks back at the couple, with a newfound interest. “And what’s in it for me?”

“The same thing,” Jefferson shrugs. “Not to mention we’d get to take out Congress,” his eyes flash. “You wouldn’t have to kill your boyfriend.”

Washington’s heart skips. They’re right. If they’re successful in overthrowing the governing hierarchy, Washington can live with Alex in peace, and his life won’t constantly be in danger. Then, maybe he can ease the news to him.

Maybe Alex would join him.

Madison, in some staged dialogue, asks Jefferson, “Wouldn’t you like to work a little closer to home?”

“ _Actually_ , I would.” Jefferson’s grin is pristine. He turns to Washington. “Wouldn’t you?”

Traditionally, the heirs are born in Virginia, but they move to New York to take control of the thrones when they inherit the title. Washington very seldom gets to revisit his home in Mount Vernon. He bites his lip as he considers this. “How would we do it?”

Jefferson’s chipper smile melts into something a bit more cunning. “Start a war.”

“With the country?”

“ _No_. With other territories,” the boss replies, sitting back and resting his ankle on his knee. Madison only watches. “We combine our armies. That’s, like, 20,000 men, and about fifty capos, right off the bat. Assign our capos territories and take out Jersey, Philly, Massachusetts and Rhode Island at the same time to set an example. After that, we march down to Connecticut, Maryland, and Delaware. We demand they surrender, or we wipe them out, too. If they surrender, kill the bosses, take the armies, and threaten the South. They won’t stand a chance. By then, our army would be over 500,000 soldiers, over a hundred capos, and three men conducting warfare. When the South surrenders, we take their armies, too. That’s Virginia, the Carolinas, _and_ Georgia. By then we’d have all 13 gangs under our control, and with enough manpower to take down Congress.”

Washington does the math in his head, and then his eyes fall to Madison. “And? So, we control smaller rings. So what?”

“ _So_ after we get Congress, we get the government. When we take over the other gangs, that means we get the loyalty of everyone in _their_ pockets, too,” Jefferson tilts his head. “By doing this, we gain more land, power, and associates.”

“What about a mob war?” Washington asks. “That isn’t the best idea. We’d risk a lot, if it didn’t work.”

The couple laughs in response. It’s an uproarious laugh, one that fills the spacious room, and it almost feels condescending. But it’d be smart of them to remember they can’t do this without Washington. He raises an eyebrow.

“Okay, look,” Jefferson speaks. “A mob war is the least of our worries. It’ll be a sneak-attack on the first three states, but by that time, we’d already have them as an example. The other Northern states will have their chance. They surrender, or they don’t. Either way, we will outnumber them in resources and manpower. They’d be smart to surrender.”

Washington stares at him, and he says to Madison, “This was your idea, James.”

Seeming surprised, the larger man raises his eyebrows, and a small smile plays on his lips as he exchanges glances with an annoyed Thomas. “Why do you say that?”

“Thomas never has any good ideas,” and his eyes fall back to Jefferson. “Nonetheless, I like the sound of it.” He sits back in his chair, lets it dip back as he considers it. Reconquer the United States, boost the international economy, dominate trade, and become the most powerful family in America? That sounds like a magnificent agenda. He narrows his eyes at Jefferson as he sits forward. “How do I know I can trust you?”

“You can’t,” he says with a shrug. “To be fair, _we_ don’t know if we can trust _you_. But for the last two centuries, our families have worked in harmony and even _after_ the schism, we remained loyal to each other! Reuniting the Association would mean restoring that trust, and rebuilding that lost connection. Yes it would take time, but that’s a small price to pay for a grand outcome.”

“We aren’t enemies,” Madison adds, and Washington sighs.

It’s true. But he can’t know for sure if the Jeffersons wouldn’t just be using him to get to the top. He tilts his head in thought. It isn’t like he _distrusts_ them. They’ve never given him a reason to. Plus, Madison is right—they’re not enemies. But Jefferson is also right— _he can’t trust them_. Not yet, at least. In fact, he’s known the couple since they were children. But he’s not sure of their intentions at this point.

He watches them closely, and says, “You’ll have your answer in three weeks.”

Jefferson whistles and Madison frowns. “Congress is going to kill your boyfriend in two weeks. Give us an answer in 24 hours. We can start working immediately.”

Washington frowns. “I need more time.” He needs time to think about it, consult his advisor, and possibly break the news to Alex. He can imagine it now. _Alexander, I’m a mob boss and I’ve been being untruthful this whole time. Don’t get upset yet, though, because I’m in the process of taking over the country again, and I’d like for you to come with me, and be a part of it._ He kind of chuckles at the thought, and Jefferson frowns. “What happens if I say no?”

“Then… we don’t do it. It’s dead. We can’t do it without you. But, Washington, let’s be realistic. This plan is the mother of plans. No one in the _country_ has or has _had_ as much of an influence as ours. No one stands a chance against us. We have brains, legacy, and manpower. They can’t _beat_ us.” He sits forward, elbows on his knees, and his voice drops into low register. “Do you want to live as a lowly, ordinary _gangster_ or do you want what our ancestors had? Power. Wealth. Able to lead the country into its golden years, and to say _you saved this country_.”

“Times have changed,” Washington frowns.

“But the government is still up for grabs. The public is still gullible. We’re still _powerful_.”

“Think about it,” Madison begins, sitting forward, as well. “This is an opportunity of a lifetime. You are perfectly capable of achieving this. It is within you and Thomas’ reach. All you have to do is _want_ it and it’s yours.”

Pretty convincing. In the evening, he sits alone in his office, considering the offer. In the end, he agreed to 24 hours, and having talked it out with his advisor, it’s looking like they’re going to agree to the plan.

But, on his own, he is a different person. He isn’t smiling falsely, or participating in charming banter. It’s much more relaxing to be by himself.

He weighs the pros and cons by writing them out on a legal pad with a red pen.

Pros

  * Power
  * Influence in politics
  * Wealth?
  * Alex survives!
  * Better country (hopefully)
  * No bosses/Congress
  * America regains dominance/prominence in International Stage
  * Another golden age/improved economy/balanced politics



Cons 

  * Potentially get self & everyone I love killed
  * Destroy the Syndicate
  * Start a nationwide mob war??
  * Killing a lot of innocent people :(



He stares at his list, and reads it over and over.

His phone buzzes with a text from Alex.

 **Alex♥ ♥ ♥**  
_hey, come home_  
            still @ the office  
_I want you to make me come again_  
            

His heart drops and he can’t help smiling. Looks like he’s going home tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Announcements:  
> no I'm not back fr fr this was just a quick update to celebrate 3500+ hits!  
> my wonderful gf had a splendid idea of a Skype chat with my readers, who were interested in meeting me? depending on how many of you all are interested, I would spread further details, but contact me if you have questions/are interested! don't be shy, I promise I won't bite, but I am so psyched to celebrate this with you guys!!!
> 
> my new tumblr url is now lowlights-highlights by the way! follow me !!!!
> 
> drop a comment! have a lovely day, I love you all & brb for real this time!!!!


	21. Air It Out

Burr pushes his ceramic mug around by the handle, avoiding eye contact with his furious partner. “It was 12am.”

“Says who?”

“His wife.”

“She wasn’t there when he was abducted!” Hamilton continues to ask, “So how does she know?” There’s exasperation in his voice. Her testimony said she was out at the time he was kidnapped. This isn’t making any sense.

“He left a voicemail, saying he was leaving around that time.” Or at least that’s what her testimony is saying. “She played it for us.”

Hamilton frowns. “That doesn’t mean that’s when he actually _left_. He was, after all, abducted from the apartment that same night.”

Burr crosses his arms, and then sighs. “We’re not even supposed to be _on_ this case, Alex.”

“That’s why we’re keeping a low profile. But we have something the other detectives _don’t_.”

“Guns?”

“A lead.”

Fair enough. Burr looks around the tiny diner, and then back to Hamilton. “So what do you want to do?”

“I wanna interrogate Antoinette. She’s lying.”

“How are you going to get probable cause to do that?” Burr frowns.

“Charlie was her daughter, but apparently she had a lover on the side, right?” Hamilton looks smugly pleased.

Awkwardly, Burr says, “Even if she did, her affair is none of our business.”

“But it could affect this case. It could point the finger as probable cause to her and her boyfriend,” Hamilton shrugs.

“Infidelity doesn’t equal murder,” Burr snaps, and Hamilton figures Burr may have dabbled in the muddy waters of An Affair. “Don’t be so quick to judge.”

“Right,” the rookie says flatly. “Whatever. Who do you think it could have been?”

“I’m willing to bet it was the man Charlie was with. Fersen?”

That’s it. It all clicks.

And as usual, Hamilton goes off the deep end.

“Maybe _he_ killed Capet. An innocent affair turned into a jealous lover who hated Capet’s guts. Maybe Charlie was Fersen’s daughter but Antoinette was never going to leave Capet for him. Maybe that drove him over the edge.” And Fersen is fucking dead now. Great. Hamilton sighs. “We need more evidence.”

“Slow down, pal,” Burr spreads his hands smoothly, ignoring a mumbled, ‘not your pal,’ from Hamilton. “There was nothing that connected Fersen to the crime scene.”

“The absence of evidence is not evidence of absence, dear Burr.”

“Alex, his room is under wraps. And you can’t go back to that apartment.” Burr sits forward, and very seriously says, “We thought the mob did this.”

“So you’re saying we should eliminate Fersen from the suspect list of a murder that occurred _in the past_ just because he’s dead _now_? Because he won’t be able to give us a confession, that exempts him from a murder committed three weeks ago?” The guy fucking had it coming to him. There’s bitterness rising in his throat and he feels nauseous. Okay, so he can’t trust strangers, either. “No, fuck that, Burr. I’m gonna find out who killed Capet.”

“So we’re eliminating the mob theory altogether?” Burr asks, following Hamilton out of the diner, rushing to leave money on the table. He probably paid more for the meal than needed, and tipped about forty dollars in an effort to follow Hamilton, who had abruptly stood up and left. “We can’t just do that! We have to consider _everything_. What about the M.O.?”

“Maybe he was trying to frame the mob.”

“Oh, so now he was a mastermind serial killer, who thought everything through, including his own death?” Burr demands, yanking Hamilton to face him. “You’re telling me he knew some maniac with a rifle was going to show up and kill him, to eliminate him from the theory altogether? You’re saying he _knew_ you would manhandle this case to get to the mafia, wasting time, while evidence of him rotted away?”

“No, Burr,” Hamilton sneers, but suddenly, he freezes, and his face slowly lights up. “But maybe he knew about Capet’s deal with the Syndicate and thought if he could frame it to look like revenge from _them_ , he could get off scot free.”

“Wouldn’t that mean he knew about the deal, in the first place?” Burr asks, flatly.

“Somehow. But maybe he got the M.O.s screwed up between gangs, because the Syndicate doesn’t use guillotines. The Jeffersons do.”

“Okay, but if Fersen knew, that means three things,” Burr begins. “One, you’re not the only one who knew about it. Two, maybe Capet told _other_ people. And three, this was no ordinary affair.”

“What do you mean?” Hamilton asks, his breath rising in the frosty air. Standing in the parking lot of some shitty diner with Burr at 11pm is sort of becoming his nights on workdays, now. There’s a tinge of jealously rising in his chest. To think that this wasn’t a secret between Hamilton and Capet ruffles his feathers.

“I mean that Fersen and Capet might have been closer than we thought, initially. Which means Fersen wasn’t a secret.”

“I doubt it.”

“People don’t just tell strangers their deepest, darkest political affairs for chit-chat and small talk.” Burr says plainly, and he’s right. It’s not exactly a conversation one would have at a dinner table, either. “Maybe there was something to be gained, or maybe he and Fersen were close. He confided.”

“Then why would he have killed Capet?” Hamilton frowns. It doesn’t make sense.

“So Fersen was having an affair with Antoinette, and…”

“Capet knew about it. Approved, even.”

Burr smiles, now that they’re thinking at the same pace. “Right. So why did Marie tell Capet that Charlie was _his_ daughter?”

“I don’t think she did,” Hamilton replies. “Charlie referred to Fersen as her father, and then Capet as her mother’s boyfriend. But maybe the affair was a secret from the public, because behind closed doors, their own business was _their_ business.”

“We need medical records,” Burr concludes, rubbing his bright red nose with his gloved hands. He shudders, “I’ll see what I can do.”

They part, Hamilton to his car, and Burr to his. Hamilton’s drive back to George’s house is one in silence, where he’s greeted by an empty corridor. George must be asleep. He kicks his shoes off and flops onto the couch.

Groggily, a grumble from the staircase calls, “Alex?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” He sits up, watches George move down the staircase toward him, flicking on a light switch as he does. Hamilton had left again after he and George fooled around in the shower, and he met up with Burr to discuss the case. He’s still freezing.

“Are you alright? Are you hungry? You look tired,” George slurs sleepily, sauntering over to Hamilton on the couch. He plops down, shirtless and warm, next to his love, and pulls him into a hug. He doesn’t even flinch, despite the fact that Hamilton’s hoodie is probably still cold from the ride back.

“It’s snowing again,” he mumbles into George’s shoulder, locking him in the hug as he snuggles inescapably closer into the crook of George’s neck.

“Do you want me to make you something, Alex?” George asks, sitting back, staring at him with a funny look. “You look awful.”

“Gee, thanks.”

With a chuckle, George goes, “You look sick,”

“Hell yea, I’m sick,” Hamilton smiles. “I’m fuckin’ rad, brah.”

George rolls his eyes, to mask his huff of laughter. “You’re _pale_. You look ill.”

“I just came from outside. Most of the blood from my hands and face pooled into my abdomen to keep my organs warm. That’s why there’s no color to my face. Did you know that’s why your hands get colder easily?”

“No, I didn’t know that,” George blinks. “But seriously, you look a mess. Here, I’ll make you something to eat. Go shower or something.”

“No, I feel fine, George.”

“Alex.”

“I’m serious, George.”

“ _Alexander_.”

“What?”

“Go. Now. I will not have you getting sick on my watch. I know you’ve been overworking those cases recently. I need you to relax. I’ll give you a massage when you get out of the shower.”

And it’s final. Hamilton reluctantly marches upstairs, and prepares his shower. It smells like George’s bodywash, and he inhales the steam, smiling to himself. It feels good to have someone take care of him. If George weren’t here, he probably would have just started on that research and maybe have gotten an hour of sleep. If that.

Later, he comes downstairs in pajamas, idly shuffling into the kitchen. Since he relaxed in the shower, the body aches hit him as soon as his heartrate slows. And as soon as he thinks about it—

Goddammit, he forgot his blood pressure medication today. He goes rifling through his bags on the couch as George continues lecturing him from the kitchen,

“—and he died. Do you know why, Alexander? Because he couldn’t handle it. Not to say that you _can’t_ handle pressure, but it’s not good for your heart. Are you—Alex? Where did you go?”

“I’m in here,” he calls from the living room. “Go on, I’m listening.”

“No you’re not.”

“You’re right, I’m not. But you said it, not me.”

George’s chuckle is the only response, but he checks his phone. A few texts from Burr.

 

 **Burr :/**  
_I think I got something  
do you think Fersen was trying to gain custody of Charly??  
I think it’s a possibility   
            _ why the fuck did you spell her name like that bro lol  
_what?  
            _ “charly”   
            wtf   
_how do you spell it?  
            _ charlie. I think the y is for like a charly horse   
_what’s that  
_             nvm. custodial rights?  
_yea. Makes sense_  
            perfect sense  
  
 

He watches George lean back against the counter, next to the stove, reading some worn book, probably older than the man, himself. It’s a wonderful sight, he thinks. A shirtless George, making soup for him at almost one o’clock in the morning. He smiles, savors the sight, and then looks into the pot.

“What kinda soup is that?”

“It’s not soup yet,” George responds, glancing over at Hamilton as he leans over the pot.

Hamilton glances at him with a half-smile, and narrows his eyes. “What kind is it gonna be, then? Where’s the can?”

“There is no can,” he laughs.

“You’re making this from scratch?” Hamilton asks, perhaps rather loudly.

“Do you have something against homemade soups that I should know about?” George raises an eyebrow.

“Of course not,” he titters, bashfully. “But, you know, I didn’t expect that. Do you have to be so extravagant all the time?”

“I didn’t have any canned soup. I don’t generally get sick.”

“Of course you don’t.”

“You’re sweating.”

Hamilton rolls his eyes playfully, and plops back down on the couch as George begins to Clorox the countertops, singing softly to himself. It’s not a song that Hamilton recognizes, but he goes back to his conversation with Burr, who has texted him,

 

 **Burr :/**  
_I don’t know what kind of evidence we’d need though  
            _ wym   
_how would we prove it? The only two people whose confession would matter are dead  
I doubt Antoinette would tell us anything about it. Maybe she thinks she’s in the clear   
            _ because they’re both dead?  
_yea.  
they’re probably the only ones who knew about it, too   
she just looks like a widow now  & no one would suspect her to be a murderer  
            _ya but also she didn’t kill anyone  
_you think she didn’t ask Fersen to do it for her?  
            _ if she did, she wouldn’t let him take Charlie. Too soon for it  
            the commissioner is murdered & suddenly another man marries his wife/takes custody of his child?  
            it wouldn’t take a genius to put two and two together. They’re not stupid   
_so you think she’s innocent  
            _ i don’t think she’s innocent per se  
            maybe she gave her blessing   
            she’d be an accomplice  
_okay  
but how do we prove that??  
            _ idk   
_Alexander we need a plan  
            _ I know & I said I don’t know  
we’ll think of somethin chill out  
_I am chilled out_  
            okay, Burr lol

 

The air is heavy with the smell of pepper, and Washington’s eyes flutter shut. In a few short hours, he’ll have to meet the Jeffersons again.

Talk about their big idea. Either he agrees or he doesn’t. Truthfully, Washington thinks it’s a good idea. But with Alexander, and the murder cases, he doesn’t think it’s the right time for it. He hears Alex shuffle into the kitchen again, and he opens his eyes, distracted by the sudden clattering of dishes.

He looks up to be met by his love, holding a bowl, saying, “Eat with me.”

 

Washington, letting his soup set, does not blow on it. He’s reserved some table manners for even the dining room table, but Alex doesn’t take the hint. He even complains about how the soup has burned his tongue, and Washington chuckles behind his glass. “So, how was the meeting?”

“We just talked about Capet’s case.”

He tenses, but holds his tongue. “Anything new?”

His eyes are bright when he says, “Closer than I thought.”

He bites the inside of his cheek, his mind racing. This is not good. “Still trying to find the mob boss, then?”

“I was wrong the whole time. It wasn’t the mob. The mob was framed.”

“Can people frame the mob?” His voice is flat. Well, now he’s just blatantly confused. “Is that even possible?”

“It is. Because I should have been after him, but for the longest time, I was hunting the Syndicate.”

“Ah. That caused you a bit of trouble, didn’t it?” His eyes drop to his bowl and Alex’s laugh melts his rapidly beating heart.

“Yes. But worth it.”

“Worth it?” Washington looks up.

“Because I have you.” Alex’s voice is soft and he looks off bashfully. “But, you know, that’s—that’s a different story.”

Washington smiles awkwardly, and he feels his cheeks heat up. “How are you feeling?”

“Horrible. But I’m always sick in the winter, so don’t stress.” He continues to eat his soup and he grins. “Actually, I’m always sick in general.”

“Weak immune system. Signs of chronic stress,” Washington frowns.

Alex shrugs. “Work needs to be done.”

“Yes, but work isn’t more important than your health,” Washington mumbles, watching Alex flip through some folders, anyway. “You can’t work if you’re dead, you know.”

Alex chuckles up at him, pushing his empty bowl aside. “Burr’s gonna do some research on the suspect. You know what’s fucking crazy?”

Washington, who is just now beginning to eat his soup, glances up at his boyfriend as he dips his head to meet the spoon at his lips. He raises his eyebrows in a quizzical way, encouraging Alex to continue speaking. However, Alexander Hamilton rarely needs anyone to ‘encourage’ him to speak.

“I lived across the street from him this whole fucking time.”

Washington, not sure of how to react, smiles oddly. “That _is_ pretty close. Why haven’t you arrested him yet?” And then, knowing Alexander, he goes, “Not enough evidence?”

At this, the Alex’s laugh seems to come from the pit of his chest, and his entire face lights up. “Well, yes. Also he’s dead. He’s the one Lafayette killed that night. Remember?”

He vaguely recalls what that information could mean, and then he blinks, realizing that must have _in fact_ been the body Lafayette brought in to him. In any event, Alex doesn’t slow down, and continues,

“Thank you, by the way. For this, you know? I needed it.”

A nod suffices Washington’s answer, and he sips his glass of water as Alex leaves the table with his folders, calling, “Night!” over his shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> n o, I'm not back yet, but I decided to upload 21 today bc ily guys 5ever and you mean the absolute world to me. 
> 
> Leave a comment if you want, I appreciate every single one. 
> 
> I'll see you guys when I see you guys. ❤


	22. Let Em Breathe

The Washington Administration is conducted by four main people. Washington’s advisor, Baron Friedrich Von Steuben; his underboss, Nathanael Greene; his mentor, Benjamin Franklin; and George Washington himself, serving as the head of authority. Together, the four of them make up Washington’s post and support system in the Syndicate, while also acting as his consult team. Their undying loyalty to him is his mental crutch most days. Ben has been a “cool uncle” to him, more than anything else, and has kept him out of trouble throughout a majority of his days. Nat has been his best friend since their middle school ages. They got into trouble a lot together. The Baron was a friend of his father’s, and thusly, gained Washington’s trust. Plus, he was the one who taught Washington how to cook.

Today, he meets with the Jefferson Administration, which is the couple, and two other men, occupying the same positions as Von Steuben and Ben. They do their business in the private public, where everyone feels more at ease, but the Syndicate is still a bit anxious to carry this out. The Jeffersons are just shady, in general.

“You do realize,” Von Steuben begins, “That our families have been at odds since the 1900’s, don’t you?”

Madison answers, “Those were meaningless debates.”

“But if we had the same issues again, wouldn’t you like to know where we’d stand?”

“The Washingtons have always had something against foreign policies and alliances,” Jefferson says smoothly. He looks to Washington. “The only way we’re going to progress is if we acknowledge this and move _past_ it.”

“Our argument is very clear. Nothing outside of US territory concerns us.” Ben is the one who speaks first. “Being involved in all corners of the world could result in a multiple front war. We can’t have that at this stage.”

“You have to be mindful,” Jefferson’s mentor speaks. He’s an older man with graying hair. “International trade is at stake. If we don’t regulate it now, the United States will be left behind.”

“That isn’t going to happen,” Washington frowns. “And you know that. By taking our time, we could really be ahead of the curve. You’ll have to forgive us if we’re not jumping _head first_ into an abyss.”

“I thought we agreed that it was a good idea,” Jefferson pouts.

They did. Sort of. But Washington isn’t the type to ignore the cons to something just because he likes the benefits. Then he thinks about Alex and he takes a deep breath. “There are pros and cons to everything, Thomas.”

The boss frowns and exchanges a glance with his husband. “That’s true. But we also agreed that some cons are just minor _sacrifices_ as a means to get to the top.”

“Are you quoting Machiavelli to gain my approval?” Washington narrows his eyes.

“We don’t need your approval,” Madison’s smooth voice fills the air around them. His voice is anything but hollow. It carries weight and significance, and Washington can see Jefferson’s back straighten. “We need your cooperation. Are we doing this or not?”

He sighs. “It isn’t that simple. I hate to be a buzzkill, but the consequences are not worth it.” Of course the consequences are totally worth it. But he’s not just going to fuse power with these guys and not get something of theirs in return, to know he has their loyalty. “I asked you once before, and I’ll ask you again. How do I know I can trust you?”

Madison says, “Because we want this just as badly as you do.”

And something about that statement provokes Washington’s thoughts. He does want this plan to go through. Pretty intensely, actually. He wants to live up to his name and fulfill the potential of the family. Restore the balance and gain control of the empire they once led. Because Washington runs a gang, but he isn’t a thug. He’s a business man. A politician, even. He sighs.

Fine.

“Alright.”

“We’re doing it?”

He glances over to Ben and the Baron, who are already watching him. Nat is watching the couple. Washington nods solemnly. “Yes. But so help me, if this is a scheme, I’ll gut you myself and feed you to the dogs.”

“That sounds fair.” Jefferson probably wasn’t listening, because now he’s slinging a briefcase onto the table and popping it open. “I did have a few concerns, though,”

“Regarding?” Washington raises a heavy eyebrow as the boss hands him a sheet of paper. Ben, Von Steuben, and Nat all lean in over his shoulder to read it. He barely has time to skim it before Jefferson says,

“The name.”

“The name? Of what?”

“The Washington-Jefferson Association.”

“You want to change it?”

“Yes.”

“To what?”

“I think Jefferson-Washington Association sounds pretty good.”

“That’s the same thing, you just put your names first,” Washington frowns.

Jefferson smiles coyly, mock sheepish. “­ _No_ I just put it in alphabetical order.”

“Then it would be the _Association of Jefferson and Washington_.”

“Well, it was _our_ idea,” Jefferson grins. “And I think a new name is in order for a new kingdom. Like the Egyptians.”

“The Egyptians kept the same name,” Nat points out.

“Quiet, boy,” Jefferson frowns. “The point is, we should change the name.”

Madison chuckles. “The Thomas Jefferson Appreciation Administration.”

“See? Jimmy has the right idea.” Jefferson motions to his husband, and flashes him a smile.

“I think what it was before sounded perfectly fine,” Washington sits back.

Jefferson gives him an odd look, one Washington has never seen before, and says, “That’s because your name was first.”

“Actually, it was because it was just a _good name_.” The room is silent, and he heaves a sigh. “Fine. I don’t care whose name is first, then. Change it, if you want.” He rolls his eyes when Jefferson starts to squeal triumphantly, and then he feels the need to add, “But that’s _it_ , okay? From this point on, everything we do, we do together.”

* * *

 

Hamilton’s health is that of bull’s. He is able to endure long hours of stress without breaking, and still being able to do it the next day.

Well, that’s kind of how it is. Usually, he collapses when he’s able to pull himself away from his work.

Now he’s sitting in the doctor’s office, swinging his legs on the uncomfortable teal cushion, which sounds funny if he shifts his weight. He studies a chart on the opposite wall, labeled “SYPMTOMS OF BRONCHITIS” with a very gruesome diagram of a lung. He’s alone, for the most part. He’s expecting his doctor to swing in, any minute now.

George had recommended Hamilton to see a doctor, if he was coming down with the flu. Hamilton vehemently objected to anything of the sort, which frustrated a concerned George. Hamilton then told his boyfriend about the time they met, where he had awoken with a fever, but by the end of the night, he was fine. This was in an effort to show that he could handle it. He omitted the consequences of what happened the next day. All the more reason to see a doctor.

In any case, George scheduled the checkup with one of his “must trusted compadres” and let Hamilton do his thing, until the time came for the appointment. From what Hamilton understands, George is at a business meeting, or something, which is funny, because George always has meetings, but Hamilton never sees him doing any business.

The soft click of the door opening catches his attention, and heels are tapping on the floor as a familiar woman breezes in. Her long, silky black hair is flowing behind her. She’s in a long white lab coat, but she’s dressed nicely underneath it. She has a stethoscope draped on her shoulders. He meets her eyes, but her smile doesn’t waver. Eliza Schuyler.

“You’re a _doctor_?”

“I’m Doctor Schuyler.” She sets her clipboard down and unwinds the stethoscope from around her neck. “I’m actually a pediatrician. I got called in for you.”

“By George?”

Instead of answering, she takes his arm, and straps the blood pressure cuff onto his bicep. She tucks the bell of the stethoscope into the band and begins to squeeze the valve. She does this a few times, letting the needle drop in the glass dial she’s holding, before she pumps up the cuff again. After a moment, she unstraps the cuff and asks, “Do you have hypertension, Mr. Hamilton?”

“Yea,” he mumbles. “I’ve been taking my medication for it.”

“Is your job stressful?” She’s writing something down on the clipboard. “High risk? Emotionally taxing?”

He keeps his eyes on her, trying to study her. Does she not remember him? But how does George know her? And then he remembers that George knows her father, but that’s—

“Mr. Hamilton,” she disrupts his thoughts and sits in front of him on a stool. “Is something on your mind?”

 He looks down at her and asks, “Don’t you remember me from the bar? Your dad tried to beat my ass?”

She gives him a strange look and grabs a plastic covering for the thermometer, instructing him to open his mouth. “Say _ah_.”

Hamilton complies, but is only frustrated with her silence. He can’t talk with trying to balance the thermometer with his teeth. The tip is poking at the soft spot under his tongue and he cringes at the ache. When it beeps, Eliza takes it from his mouth, disposes the covering, and says,

“You’re running a slight fever. Have you had your vaccinations?”

“Yes.”

“Have you been out of the country in the past 90 days?”

“No.”

“I’ll be back shortly,” she says curtly, stands, and leaves.

Needless to say, Hamilton is at a loss for words as he stares after her, the door swinging shut. He slumps back against the wall, kicking his legs, gears churning. Maybe that wasn’t Elizabeth Schuyler. But then again, he does find it odd that she was at the club the same night George was there, and she’s a pediatrician. But as far as Hamilton knows, George has no children. He stares at the bronchitis poster, absorbing the humming sound of the vents above him.

It could all be some strange coincidence.     

He chooses to suppress his instincts, and massages his forehead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short short short chapter, but I'm bACK AND IM BETTER IM BETTER THAN EVER 
> 
> I missed you guys so much and I really hope I haven't upset any of you, but I'm back on the grind! 
> 
> Leave comments below and tell me about any of the crazy stuff that happened while I was gone!! See you soon!!!


	23. FAQ

While reviewing case files, Hamilton and Burr decide that lunch would be a good idea, even though it’s 7 o’clock in the evening, at George’s place. He’s not home yet, but he should be soon, Hamilton figures. The pair had skipped lunch to use their thirty minutes to infiltrate the library, in search for anything that might broadcast the Syndicate in New York, in the past thirty years. They weren’t very successful, but they did find a few articles, relating to Marie Antoinette and Capet’s pregnancy. (Hamilton finds it odd that the couple had gained so much fame, without really doing much. It strikes him as very Kim-K.-and-Kanye of them.)

They sit, over abandoned bowls of chili, discussing the links Fersen could have had with the murder, while also trying to find ways to nail Marie Antoinette, to interrogate her.

“Maybe Hercules knows where she is,” Burr suggests, combing his spoon through his paper bowl. “He helped her find Charlie, in the first place.”

“Wait… why would he know?” Hamilton looks up, suspiciously.

Burr seems to freeze for a moment as he considers this, himself, but he just says, “He’s a good detective.”

Hamilton sighs. “Alright. So, Marie gets Capet killed, so she can marry Fersen, right? But then Fersen is killed by Lafayette, and then we take Charlie,”

“Marie and Hercules come get Charlie from my place.” Burr sits back. “Consider this: if you attempt to sell that story to the press, we just sound like crazy kidnappers, and Marie looks innocent. Like a victim, even.”

“But you’re trying to get her for murder?” Hamilton asks, scratching his head. “There’s no one to prove that she manipulated them. She can always play victim if both men are dead. No one’s there to testify against her. She won.”

“So the case is dead?” Burr frowns.

“Fuck no. Maybe we can’t pin her for Capet’s murder directly, but surely she was an accessory.”

The front door slams shut, and Hamilton hears George’s light curses as he sets his briefcase down. As Hamilton hops up to greet him at the door, Burr remains seated at the table, reading a yellow official document closely.

“Hey, Alex,” George mumbles as he slips his shoes off, kissing him on the forehead.

“How was work?” Hamilton grins, helping George out of his coat. He loves the feeling already. It’s like they’re married, or something.

Washington doesn’t answer, just lightly kisses his love softly on his warm lips, but clattering in the kitchen catches his attention, and he looks up to where a man is standing, leaning on the doorframe. He doesn’t recognize him, and he’s prepared to question Alex, but the man goes,

“You must be Alexander’s boyfriend.”

Washington’s eyes drop down to Alex, and he frowns over at the guy. “And you’re a guest in my home. Who’re you?”

“Aaron Burr, sir.”

Alex chuckles, resting his hand on Washington’s bicep. “You two, calm down. Burr is my partner. George, I got you a bowl of chili from the precinct.”

Washington’s expression in response must be something of bewilderment, because Alex chuckles, and Aaron Burr disguises a laugh. “That doesn’t sound very appetizing.”

“It’s good, c’mon! You’ll like it. The chili guy made it, homemade.”

Washington narrows his eyes. “I had a big lunch.”

“More for us,” Alex shrugs, and waltzes back into the kitchen, leaving Burr and Washington alone.

“You never said who you were,” the shorter of the two comments.

“Well, that’s simple. I’m the man whose home you are currently experiencing the pleasures of. If I were you, I’d humble myself,” Washington raises an eyebrow. This must be the prick Alex was complaining about having as a partner.

“Do you have a name?”

“George.” He would shake Burr’s hand, but he stays put, glaring him down across the room. “And you’re…Alex’s coworker?”

“We’re working on a few cases together,” Burr shrugs, regards his nails. “Uh, it was nice of you to let him stay here.”

“Thanks. It was nice of you to drop by.”

“Burr’s not leaving yet,” Alex calls from the kitchen. “Don’t kick him out, we were just getting started!”

Washington rolls his eyes and fishes around in his pocket for his phone. “Did Rosita leave yet?”

“I gave her the day off,” Alex calls from the kitchen.

Washington frowns, and his first instinct is to check on his flowers, but Alex continues, saying, “Don’t worry. I made sure they were alright.”

Silverware clatters, and Washington trudges to the living room, sifting through the mail Alex brought in. He smiles thoughtfully, to himself. _Alex brought his mail in_. He must look like an idiot, grinning down at final notices and bills. He pays them no mind, making a mental note to have Nat arrange for them to be paid. He can hear the low buzz of Alex and Burr idly discussing something about childhood cartoons, and it’s then that Washington realizes just how much older he is than Alex. Of course he’d been aware that Alex is about 24 years old. But Washington is almost 46 and suddenly, he’s more aware that his feet ache, and he just feels… well, old.

He looks back down at the mail in his hands.

Washington isn’t the insecure type. He’s the take-charge-type. The get-things-done-type. The got-hoes-for-days-type. He doesn’t care what people think, and he likes that about himself. But then he hears Burr’s smooth, easy laugh melding with Alexander’s snorting-screeching laughter, and his fists clench and his teeth grind. He rolls his neck, and he feels it crack. His muscles flex under his sleeves, and he wonders why he never felt old before. Was it Martha? His job?

Alex makes him feel young, but at the same time, he makes him feel old.

He hates that word.

‘Old.’

He grumbles, and reflects on his life. He doesn’t look that old. He looks aged, like fine wine. He’s active, and still has a sharp mind. He takes care of himself. He goes jogging and does crossword puzzles.

Alex doesn’t seem bothered by the age difference, which doesn’t surprise Washington at all. He seems like the type of person to be into older men, anyway.

“What are you doing in here, by yourself?” Alex’s soft voice interrupts his thoughts. “The party’s in the kitchen.”

Washington turns to face Alex, and in the dim light, with the kitchen lights flooding behind him, and he looks like an angel, who has come to save Washington and rinse him clean of his sins. He cups his love’s face, and kisses him softly on his sweet lips.

Alex, flustered, dissolves into giggles, and shoves Washington as he hides his blushing face. “What was that for?”

Washington shrugs, and grins stupidly. Alex seems just as surprised, because Washington never smiles with his teeth, and Alex’s entire face lights up.

“LOOK AT YOUR **GAP**!” He squeals, and proceeds to pinch his cheeks, crying, “Look at how cute your smile is! Why don’t you ever smile like that, George? Go! Do it again!”

Washington has completely forgotten about Burr, and is startled when he hears,

“Alexander, Hercules just texted me.”

And just like that, Alex’s attention is ripped away, by Aaron Burr.

They leave together, Alex urging Washington to try the chili, and that he’ll be back soon. But honestly, all Washington wanted tonight was to relax with Alexander and watch reruns of game shows and eat pizza out of the box. Maybe break the news slowly to him. Ask his boy for a back massage.

He frowns when the penthouse goes silent, except for the buzz of the heater, behind him.

The silence at this time of night reminds him of his life, after Martha died.

He falls back into the couch (the one he and Alexander fooled around on, on the first date) and sighs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter for my bbys who have been waiting, I'm really sorry :'-( I'm getting over this cold/flu so you'll have to excuse me for my absence. 
> 
> Also when I wrote GW and his identity crisis, all I could picture was that episode of spongebob where Mr Krabs woke up and was rly old???? it showed the montage of his morning, being Old & he was all depressed :'-( but GW is a Handsome Daddy, he shouldn't doubt himself 
> 
> Anyway, drop a comment & ily all. mob war coming soon, stay tuned ❤❤❤


	24. 50 Shades of Burr

If there was a reason Hercules’ mother named him what she did, he’d like to know that now. Because now, he sits before all three Schuyler sisters, as they glare holes through him, and demand answers that he is not prepared to give.

“You’re _friends_ with Aaron Burr?” Angelica scowls. “That isn’t what we agreed to!”

“It’s a long story,” Hercules frowns. “Whose side are you on, anyway?”

“Burr is not our friend,” Eliza explains slowly. “He isn’t anyone’s friend; he doesn’t play for any one team. He’ll jockey back and forth, and when he gets what he’s after, he’ll go right back to the other side. He’s playing you. Didn’t he ask you questions?”

He feels his face turn hot. “He’s a detective.”

“He’s an _informant_. He doesn’t work for anyone but himself, and he makes money off of what he does.”

“So why isn’t he dead yet?” Hercules asks, bewildered. His wide eyes are searching the girls, but he’s disappointed that he isn’t met with any reassurance.

“Because he’s an asset,” Eliza sighs.

“He’s doing exactly what you’re doing. Getting the inside scoop, in the police department, but instead of serving the Syndicate, he’s investigating it.” Angelica’s amber eyes are bright with rage.

Peggy’s small voice says, “When he needs money, he sells information to the highest bidder. We call them third party. Mob politics,”

“So he’s using me?”

“What did you tell him?” Angelica asks.

Because Hercules kind of assumed that Burr was a _fellow detective_ , in reality, he told him anything he wanted to know, in exchange that Burr didn’t out Hercules to Alex. It was an odd deal, but blackmail is a bitch. Now he knows why Burr was so adamant about finding out Capet’s case. He’s selling information to the Jeffersons, and possibly even desperate Syndicate capos.

“Fuck.”

Eliza and Peggy exchange glances, but Angelica’s eyes remain trained on Hercules. “What did he ask to know?”

“About Capet’s death. About Fersen. He wanted to know if Fersen was involved in the Syndicate, or if we ever knew anything about his affair.”

“What’d you tell him?” Eliza asks quizzically.

“I said I didn’t know a Fersen,” Hercules shrugs, but he can easily see the girls’ gears churning.

“Fersen is a familiar name, but it isn’t one from the Syndicate,” Peggy muses. “The Jeffersons?”

“He wanted to know about them, too,” he says quickly, avoiding the glares thrown at him like daggers. If looks could kill, Hercules would be in worse condition than Capet.

“I don’t think Fersen was in the Jeffersons,” Angelica mumbles, scratching her head. “But he was definitely a figure in mob politics.”

“And Lafayette killed him,” Hercules responds. “That was the father of the little girl he made me find,”

“And the body Monsieur Lafayette brought in to Mister Washington?”

“And the late lover of Marie Antoinette?”

“Some could argue he was Capet’s lover, too.”

“I heard that rumor,”

“Why would he want to know about Fersen?” Eliza asks, suddenly.

The room goes silent as they all begin to brainstorm, but Hercules only sits, staring at the floor, thinking of his little girl and his dogs.

* * *

 

The cocaine smuggling from Peru through the California border is doing wonders for John’s numbers. According to his stats in the Syndicate, Little Laurens is making big bank. He’s going to get a promotion, he can feel it. Mobs exist to make money, and when capos do good jobs, collecting money for their boss, they are greatly rewarded.

But John doesn’t think there could be any prize better than having another night with the boss, or even the bitch that cuffed him. He feels his cock stir and he shudders just thinking about the touch and the soft breathing, and how Wash’s big, strong hands pressed into his throat and grabbed his thighs. Or how that thick cock fit so perfectly in his mouth, or his hands, or his—

A stack of papers slamming down on his desk is enough to startle him out of his thoughts, and he’s met with Lafayette’s brown eyes. “We are needing to do the talk, _mon ami_.”

 

Over coffee in the breakroom, Lafayette expresses his concern. “You have not been the _Jean_ I know.”

“Whaddaya mean, Marq?” John chuckles, stirring his cup gently.

Flustered with his inability to express himself, the Frenchman watches John sip his coffee, and his eyes widen and he grabs John’s wrist.

With a loud whisper, he goes, “Your arm! _Jean_ , who does this??”

“No one, Marq,” he flushes, but when he tries to pull his arm back, the grip on it only tightens.

“Please tell me, _mon coeur_.”

John can see his friend’s heart breaking in his eyes as sheer panic and rage cloud the pretty, misty brown they always are. Not wanting to alarm him any further, John decides that he should just be honest. “I like kinky sex.” He says it a little loudly.

The breakroom goes silent, but John has no shame. The grip goes limp, and John fixes his sleeve, ignoring Lafayette’s concerned puppy face and the snickering around him. Alright so he could have worded that better. At least his coworkers will stop hitting on him now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter for my short beebs!!! :-0  
> so, now we see Burr's true colors. I know we've all been waiting for tHIS ONE,,,  
> lemme know how you feel about this bc trust me, at chapter 24, we're JUST getting started!
> 
> announcement,  
> I think that bc school is starting the chapters are gonna be short like this one, but if they're important chapters, they'll be a lot lot longer but they'll take me a lot lot longer to complete, you get me?
> 
> ALSO THAN K YOU GUYS FOR FIVE THOUSAND HITS OMG, I CANNOT BELIEVE PEOPLE CLICKED ON THIS TRASH FIVE THOUSAND TIMES HOLY HECC,,,,, THANK YOU GUYS SO MUCH, YOU'RE LITERALLY THE BEST


	25. Four Words

“Twelve men were shot dead, today in Providence, Rhode Island. Witnesses say four unidentified men opened fire next to a—”

“—with today’s news. Philadelphia is currently suspecting New York City’s mob, as the p—”

“—and unidentified. The Boston police department is currently looking for—”

“—hysterical gun violence. The police chief says he is d—”

“Thank you, Heather. Breaking news today from Phi—”

“—calls for a state of emergency. The town is in sh—”

Jefferson’s plan was golden. Well, it was Madison’s plan, but Jefferson followed through. Washington’s palms are sweaty as he reviews the terms of agreement with Ben, who flushes deeply as the couple gloats their victory. They were right. The organized sneak attack certainly did startle the northern gangs, which is great and all, but Washington is taken aback at the intensity for bloodshed the men seem to crave. Rhode Island didn’t stand a chance, and Massachusetts was a pretty easy target. Philadelphia, on the other hand, was tough, but worth it. By now, combined, JWA has over 50,000 men and the other armies are weighing their options.

Washington is weighing his, too. He can’t back out, but he can’t shake the feeling that these guys could turn on him.

By now, they have a to-do list.

  1. ~~Rhode Island, Massachusetts Pennsylvania~~
  2. Connecticut, New Jersey, Delaware, Maryland
  3. Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia
  4. Overthrow Congress
  5. Get [???] elected as president
  6. Control the whole government
  7. Control America
  8. Control the world



So far, so good. He refrains from leaving to dry heave in the men’s room. He’s sitting perfectly still, watching the news broadcast the violent massacre. They’ve described it as a gang war, which has Jefferson fuming. To him, the whole thing was top secret. Apparently, he hadn’t anticipated that there would be coverage by the media, and yet Washington is surprised he isn’t bathing in it. He must be smart enough to know that would be a bad idea. Which means Jefferson is smarter than Washington initially thought. Good to know.

 “Yes!” Jefferson cries, flicking the television off. It’s a flat screen, attached to the wall, Washington observes. Okay, so the Jeffersons are too good for tables now. “Perfect!” He high fives his husband, and turns to make eye contact with Washington. “See? We’re almost there, already! Golden!”

The Syndicate boss shrugs, but can’t contain his smile. He isn’t going to lie, it feels pretty good to win. But he can’t really imagine that all of those men—the ones that could have easily surrendered—had to die. But now, their armies are preparing to march south, through the Massachusetts border. The thing that frightens Washington the most, in the back of his mind, is that one day, he will face the consequences of his actions. And if that’s God, striking him dead, or him taking the reins of the country, or losing Alex, or making money, so be it. Nat looks like he’s about to faint.

His phones buzzes on the table next to him, and he’s not surprised to see that John has texted him, regarding his stats in the business. Jefferson has taken an interest in Laurens, after seeing that he makes the Syndicate over 1.5 billion dollars in a month and a half. He’d wanted to know all about him, and asked Washington why he was still a fourth capo, and not a first.

 **John Laurens**  
_hey boss_  
            yes Laurens? _  
so my imports on the smack  
I found out that I can tax the import double_  
            so that doubles your numbers? _  
im pretty sure it does but I have to rly be_ _careful_  
            I’m proud of you _  
omg really???  
            _ keep up the good work, soldier  
_im a capo :(_  
            it’s a figure of speech

He turns his attention back to Jefferson who is currently in the process of trying to teach Madison how to dab, and sits back in his chair. What the fuck has his deal been, lately? Alex makes him explore parts of himself that he hasn’t even _considered_ since high school. Jealousy, sex drive, insecurity, rage. Maybe that sex drive part was a lie. Anyway, the point is, Alex doesn’t even know it, but he means a lot to Washington. It scares him that this whole load of shit could someday (very soon) hit the fan, and he could lose Alex. Potentially a breakup. Or worse.

* * *

 

“We’re fucked,” Hamilton frowns. “It was Fersen and Marie, I know it was,”

Burr only huffs his breath into his gloved hands, shivering as the snow flurries flutter around him. Hamilton stands, reading a flyer stapled to one of those thick, wooden poles that no one ever bothers to look up at to see what it’s for. The flyer relays some bullshit about an ancient regime taking over the United States government. Preposterous. He rips it off the pole, crumples it up, and shoves it into his pocket, though. Alexander Hamilton is a lot of things, but a liter bug is not one. 

“We just have to be mindful,” Burr replies, through chattering teeth. “C-can we go inside now? I’m freezing.”

“Hush, Burr,” Hamilton commands, his boots crunching on top of the snow on the sidewalk. “Just think about stuff that you like, and you’ll be fine.”

“I don’t even think Marie is home,” Burr snaps, shuddering as the wind picks up. “Let’s just go.”

“Quit being a little bitch,” Hamilton says absently as he approaches the gate to Marie Antoinette’s home. The quaint house is a bit big for it to be in New York City. The flowers in the garden are dusted with snow and frost, and icicles hang from her porch. White Christmas lights are still tightly wound around the columns and beams of her house, and immediately, Hamilton gets a whiff of nostalgia. He misses Capet.

He stops at the gate, one gloved hand resting on the frozen metal. He doesn’t move as he stares at the windows and the porch swing. In fact, he feels his eyes well with tears as he remembers every instance that he visited the late commissioner in his home. He bites his lip. He could just leave. He could turn around, drop the case, forget about it, go home. But something in the back of his mind won’t allow him to move, and he stares at the house until Burr says,

“Alex. You okay?”

He blinks, takes a shuddering breath, turns to walk away. “Yea. Let’s go.”  

Burr’s face quickly pulls into a frown, and his hands shoot out, holding Hamilton in place. “What happened?”

“Nothing. Memories, I guess.” He hadn’t realized until now that he’d still been grieving. Which he considers odd, but he brushes it off when Burr takes a step toward him.

“Alex, I’m going to ask you something crazy, and you’re going to have to be honest.”

“Okay?”

“I noticed with your boyfriend, he’s an older man. Right?”

Hamilton groans. “Do we have to talk about this _now_?”

“I promise it’s relevant.”

With a forgiving glare, Hamilton mutters, “What about him?”

“You have a preference for older men?” Burr asks nonchalantly.

“Stop calling him old. He isn’t even that old.”

“A lot older than you.”

He considered it. A half nod.

“And with this case, you’re really… well, _impassioned_. You know, going hard in the paint.”

He thinks he knows where this is going, and he steps back from Burr, a look of scorn passing over his soft features. “What the fuck? No! _Jesus Christ_ , Burr!”

“No, listen!” Burr’s voice raises when Hamilton’s does, and he fights to restrain the young man’s flailing hands.

“I never _fucked_ Capet, okay? He was a father figure to me!”

Burr’s taken aback at the possibility. “You seemed pretty jealous of Fersen and Antoinette, and their affairs with him.”

“ _Or_ maybe I’m upset that they killed him!”

“Gentlemen?”

They both turn, facing a short woman with tall blond hair, in a large white fur coat, staring at them from behind a pair of large pink-tinted sunglasses. She’s frowning deeply, and Burr goes,

“Miss Antoinette,”

“Can I help you?” She’s holding a few shopping bags and her keys, glare intensifying as she meets Burr’s smooth smile. Her southern accent is heavier when she’s upset.

“I’m Detective Burr, and this is my partner, Detective Hamilton. We had a few questions for you.”

Marie’s glare transitions to Hamilton, now, and he feels himself get angry in his stomach and his neck. He knows that feeling, when he tenses and his jaw tightens. He knows his ears turn hot and his thighs tense. He’s boiling with rage and he’s not said two words.

“I know who you are,” Marie says to Burr. “What, do you have any of my other children, Mister Burr?”

Hamilton’s inclined to speak, but fortunately Burr beats him to the punch. “Can we come in?”

“Am I being detained?” The way her bright red lips curl at the ends is enough to have Hamilton seething.

“It would be easier to do this here. We’d rather not have to bring you to the station. We just have a few questions.” Burr is trying to reason, trying to be as polite as humanely possible. But he recognizes that Marie is still bitter from their last encounter. He knows he’s reached a dead end.

“I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I’m gonna ask you to leave my property, or I’m gonna have to call the actual _cops_ on you.” And with that, she turns, and sashays up the driveway, and Hamilton stares until the front door slams shut behind her.

His shoulders slump in defeat, and all at once, he feels the rage in his throat. “God!” he roars. “She’s such a _bitch_!”

“Hamilton.”

“No, Burr, what the fuck is her problem?” Hamilton feels his eyes welling with tears. “What, she kills him and _gets away with it_?”

“No, Alex,” Burr says, voice low. “But keep your voice down. She might be able to hear us.”

That only makes it worse. “Fuck it, Burr! I _want_ her to hear me! Because she knows it’s true! She knows she and Fersen plotted to kill Capet and she killed Fersen so he wouldn’t snitch! And I want her to know that we know! I want her to know she can’t fucking hide!”

“Sh, sh, sh,” Burr shushes Hamilton, scooping him into his arms until the latter stops shouting and is only broken down to sobs.

* * *

 

Dinner is quiet. Between Alex and Washington, the most noise comes from the silverware, clattering on the ceramic plates. Washington’s lifestyle is extravagant. He is modest in personality, but in all else, he has expensive taste and he shows it. Tonight, however, he is not feeling much of anything. Alex is not speaking to him, and he overcooked the duck. His feet ache. He still feels old. Laurens wanted some sort of recognition, but Lafayette was with him, so Washington blew off the lunch meeting so he wouldn’t have to see the Frenchman. He pities him, ironically.

Washington’s dogs are waiting under the table, for Alex to feed them scraps. He always does, but tonight he hasn’t looked up from his plate.

Washington breaks the silence.

“Something happen?”

Alex looks up, startled, and then smiles oddly. “Death is a strange thing.”

“Isn’t it?” He twists his wedding band on his finger. He doesn’t know why he still wears it.

“Every year, I visit home to see my mother’s grave. This year, I don’t think I’ll make it.”

“That’s nonsense. You know I could assist you monetarily. I’ll even go with you for support.” It sounds dumb when he says it aloud, but in theory it sounds like a good plan.

“I meant that it’d be hard to find time with—wait, you’d do that?” Alex looks taken aback.

Washington chuckles. “I would. But is it work? It’s hectic?”

“There’s still the Capet case open. And Burr and I are still working the Harbor Bodies case.” He sits back in his chair. “I saw Capet’s wife today.”

“Is she doing okay?”

“She’s doing just fine,” he grumbles bitterly. “She fucking—I think she killed him.”

“Alexander,” Washington starts, but is cut off by Alex going,

“No, listen. I don’t even know where to start, but she was having an affair and got her guy to kill Capet! Then I think she killed the guy that killed Capet.”

Washington frowns. The guy that killed Capet was supposedly the body Lafayette brought to him. But if that’s the case, then Alex will be looking for that body soon. All he can manage is, “Are you sure?”

“I don’t have the evidence I need, but you can bet your sweet ass I’m gonna get it, George Washington.”

“I’d like to keep my sweet ass,” the gentleman replies calmly. “But you have to control your temper.”

Alex flushes, and begins to eat his duck, chewing it thoroughly and asking, “Is this chicken?”

“It’s not.”

“I think it’s funny how you don’t take that question as implying that you need to tell me what the hell I’m eating,” Alex chuckles as he continues to eat it.

“Clearly you’re still eating it,” Washington replies flatly.

“I still want to know what it is.”

“Do you think I’m too old for you?”

Alex freezes at the sudden shift of conversation, and he looks genuinely confused at the look on Washington’s face. He doesn’t move, just frozen there, with his mouth hanging open, and fork full of duck ready to be shoved into his mouth. He looks ridiculously endearing, but that only pangs at the guilt in his chest.

Slowly, he puts the fork down and gives Washington an odd look. Very curtly, he says, “If you’re thinking I fucked you out of pity, you’re outta your goddamn mind.”

Washington says, mocking Alex, “I think it’s funny how you don’t take that question as implying that you need to tell me wh—”

“Shut the hell up,” Alex shrieks with laughter, shoving Washington across the table. “Fuck you. No, George, I don’t think you’re _too old for me_. But you know what they say—older is better with wine and men.”

“My age doesn’t bother you?”

“No. Why would you think that?” He looks concerned, and his brow furrows. “Okay, so maybe I have some stupid idea in my head that what I feel with you is natural. Because for me, it is. I don’t have to pretend I’m someone else or _somewhere_ else when I’m with you. You’re experienced and charming and you’re every cheesy romance protagonist’s dream.”

“So you’ve never thought about me and went ‘sheesh, that guy is old?’” Washington narrows his eyes.

“Am I too young for you, George? Is that what you’re saying?” Alex’s eyes are burning. “Too young? Too reckless? Inexperienced? Am I not good enough for you, or something?”

Washington’s eyes widen in alarm and he damn near panics. “No! No, Alex, not at all. It’s just that,” he pauses. How can he say this without sounding like a douchebag? “Sometimes, I think you’d look better with a younger guy?”

“Like John Laurens?” Alex asks observantly. “You want another threesome.” It’s less of a question, more of a statement.

“That’s not what I’m talking about.” Not that he’d be opposed to the idea…

“So what _are_ you talking about?” Alex demands.

“I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life.” This is it. He could tell him, right here, right now. Just say it. Confess. “I’m not proud of them.”

“I know, George, nobody’s perfect,” Alex sighs. “That doesn’t mean you’re not good enough. I think you’re the best. You’re just what I need—maybe more than that. I mean, who makes their sick boyfriend homemade soup in the middle of the night?”

Washington is speechless. “No, Alex, I’m the Sy—”

“I love you anyway. No matter what you’ve done.”

“What?”

Alex grins, and his cheeks are a rosy red. “I love you, George.”

Now he’s dumbfounded. Stunned. He has no response, his head is spinning. “You don’t even know what I’ve done, Alex.”

“That doesn’t matter,” the young man waves his hand, shaking his head. “We all make mistakes, right? I’m not here to throw your past in your face. I’m here to help build your future.”

He could still say it.

He could still say, _I’m not who you think I am. I’m a criminal._

_I’m a mob boss._

Four words could change everything.

But he chooses a different set of four words, instead, that changes everything still.

“I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I could send every single one of you gold star stickers.  
> I hope you're having a lovely day.  
> drop a comment ❤


	26. Alex Does Dumb Shit, Part 26

“He does hate the apologies, _Jean_ ,” Lafayette chides. “I should have known. He would not take my begging for forgiveness lightly.”

Outside, the Christmas lights have not been taken down but it’s almost February. It doesn’t irk John as much as it apparently bothers other people, and he wishes the Christmas lights stayed up year-round. He likes the feel of Christmastime in the air, it makes him think of nights in South Carolina with his Gran’ma Laurens—the one who gave him his chain. He catches a whiff of Lafayette’s cologne and his stomach turns. He’s truly a bit bitter about Washington ditching their lunch plans last minute. John was probably going to get promoted. Washington avoided him because Lafayette was with him. He knows the man would have crushed Lafayette’s skull in broad daylight. “You fucked up, Marq,” John mumbles, zipping his coat up.

“I know, _doudou_ , and it is my fault. You should not have to suffer because of me, _amie_.”

“You don’t sound very sorry.”

“I never said I was.”

John rolls his eyes, watching a couple wag their scolding fingers in a disinterested child’s face. He watches the pigeons chase after a cat, he watches the LED signs broadcast the latest broadways and he sighs. “I know you’re not.” Honestly, he can’t be angry with the Frenchman. A lot of what happened wasn’t even his fault, but he got drawn into it, just as John and Washington had, too. “Do you really think the Syndicate did this?”

“Did what, exactly?”

“Killed Capet.” That is how this whole thing got started, isn’t it?

Lafayette frowns, watching the cars charge past him in the busy New York traffic, horns blaring and sirens wailing in the east. He tightens his scarf at his neck, and waits on the edge of the crosswalk, considering the question. “ _Mais non,_ you have already ask me the question!”

A shrug. “You never really said.”

After a moment of deep thought between the two, the French capo says, “No. I do not think _le Génèral_ set up for the Commissioner to be killed. Truly, in my heart, I think Washington did not hate him. I think that if it meant as much as Hammy was saying, he would have killed _le bâtard laid_ himself.”

John considers this and nods. “True. You think the boss is clever?”

Lafayette chuckles with a shrug of his own, watching the cars come to a halt, and the street-crossing sign blinks green. As a swarm of people carrying briefcases and phones to their ear move with them, John allows himself to be swept away in the city life. He hasn’t been looking at things the same since Capet was murdered. It’s changed everything in so many lives, and he can sense it. His best friends are higher strung and his boss is more irritable, but he’s also calmer when he’s not angry. Lafayette’s entire system of existence has been flipped on its ass. John _fucked_ George Washington.

“And what of you?” Lafayette asks curiously, nudging John as they cross the street. “Why has little John become so troubled?”

“I haven’t,” John says, and perhaps that’s a small lie. “A lot of stress.”

“ _Oui_ ,” the Frenchman nods. “You may say that two times again.”

In confusion, John half glances at his friend, raising an eyebrow.

“It is a figure of speech I heard one time.”

“As in, ‘you can say that again?’”

Hesitantly, the French capo repeats, “It is a figure of speech I heard one time?”

John chuckles. “The phrase is, _you can say that again_.”

“Oh!” Lafayette exclaims, which startles a small woman behind him, and he politely excuses himself as he turns back to John. “I will have to remember that,”

* * *

 

_February_

Wednesday mornings are sort of the half-way point for working weeks. The ‘ _it’s only Wednesday??’_ employees groan versus the enthusiastic, ‘ _it’s Wednesday already??_ ’ they sometimes mutter while they sit with their coffee, staring out of the window.

The heating unit in the precinct has been repaired, and Robespierre is expecting New York’s Finest to be on their toes, now, 100% of the time. Burr and Hamilton’s case about the harbor bodies has been reduced to simply collecting the remains and putting them back into their respected families’ care for a proper funeral service. While Hamilton and Burr lost track of the case, the homicides had been ruled a suicide, and now Hamilton is furious.

“How could you just do that?” the rookie demands, barging into the commissioner’s office. He’s in the middle of something with one of Hamilton’s coworkers, but he doesn’t care. He’s livid. “You ruled all 35 of those dead bodies a _suicide_?”

“Detective Hamilton,” Robespierre’s voice is stern as he glares at him from behind his desk. The other detective stares wearily at him, but only mutters an exhausted,

“Mornin’, Ham.”

“Hey, Ed.”

“I’m going to ask you to leave, and to get your temper under control,” Robespierre frowns, but he doesn’t get off of his chair. The chair probably makes him a lot taller than he actually is. “You’re way out of line, Detective.”

“I’m doing my _job_ , Commissioner.” He doesn’t calm down, though. No, fuck that. No, next he’ll try to rule Capet’s death a suicide. His anger flares. “You need to do _yours_.”

The older man’s face flushes and he hops off of his chair, walks around the desk so that he’s right in front of his subordinate. “What have you been doing Hamilton? Huh? Missing days of work? Leaving early? Going AWOL without telling anyone? _Lashing out on coworkers?_ Yes, we got complaints about yours and Mulligan’s argument in the courtyard. About your arguments with Detective Burr and Detective Lee and Lieutenant Cornwallis. The widow of Capet stormed in here in _tears_ threatening to press charges. I got you out of that.” He straightens his back, lifts his nose into the air, and with a scornful glare, spits, “You’re lucky I haven’t fired your ass _yet_.”

And without considering the consequences, without thinking he might need this job, or to keep this position to keep the case, he gets a twisted idea. He smiles, and his laughter erupts. He can’t stop laughing, and it roars from his chest, spilling out like ink, staining his hands and reputation. He can’t stop laughing, to which a horrified Robespierre watches, unsure of how to react.

“Detective.”

“I’m sorry,” he keens, wiping a tear from his eye as his laughter slows and he’s leaning on the wall for support. “Woo. You got me there. Yea. _I’m_ lucky _you_ haven’t fired _me_ yet.”

Robespierre frowns, and his prepared to speak, but is interrupted by a familiar voice going,

“Alex? What are you doing?”

All three men—the commissioner, Hamilton, and Ed—look towards the doorframe, where Hercules Mulligan stands, concerned and hesitant. Hamilton smiles. “Herc! You caught me just in time! I was just about to quit.”

Robespierre’s face darkens a shade of red, and he looks like a giant toddler, pouting. “That’s fine. I was about to ask for your badge.”

“Woah,” Hercules inserts himself smoothly between both men, facing the commissioner in Alex’s defense. “Please, sir, he doesn’t mean anything that he’s saying.” And to Hamilton, he says, “Leave. _Right now._ Take a breather.”

“Herc—” Hamilton begins, but is cut off by the Commissioner snapping,

“No, Detective. Mr. Hamilton needs to deal with the consequences of his actions as an _adult_.” He tries his best to look at Hamilton, but Hercules’ shoulders are blocking his angle, so he simply holds his hand out. “Your badge, please.”

Too angry to rationalize, too prideful to apologize, Hamilton snatches it off of his belt, and hurls it across the room. “Keep your stupid fucking badge,” he snarls. “Everyone in this fucking precinct is working for the mafia, anyway,”

Hercules freezes, and his eyes meet Ed’s, but Hamilton doesn’t notice because he’s too busy screaming at Robespierre.

“Fuck you, and fuck this stupid conspiracy. If I have to solve Capet’s case on my _own_ , you’d better _pray_ I don’t out your ass to the whole fucking country, you short ass nematode.”

“That’s enough,” Hercules growls, lest Hamilton gets himself into more trouble.

“No, let him talk,” Robespierre swats his hand dismissively, and returns to his desk. “We’re counting the insults to add to the referral.”

“Oh yea?” Hamilton roars, making a run for the Commissioner, before he’s grabbed around the waist by Hercules, who locks his arms and attempts to drag Hamilton out, kicking and screaming. “I can go all _night_ you fucking brown-noser! And while I’m at it, I’ll fucking solve the harbor case by myself, because fuck you, you bipedal slug!”

 

Hamilton doesn’t stop fuming until he’s strapped down in Hercules’ passenger seat, with Hercules beside him, and Burr behind him. He doesn’t speak, just stares out of the windshield, considering what just happened.

Oh fuck.

No one speaks.

“Do you want me to call George?” Burr asks, staring at Hamilton through the rearview. “He can come pick you up.”

“No,” Hamilton snaps. “I’m gonna deal with my problems _myself_ , like a responsible adult.”

Burr and Hercules exchange glances, and Hamilton rolls his eyes.

 

The sound of cars rushing by the street-side coffee shop distract Alex, and he avoids looking Washington in the eye. They’re at the Schuyler’s coffee joint, where Washington has called off his day of work to pick up Alex. It’s good to be the boss. Something has happened, but he isn’t sure what. No one told him anything, but it’s a bit odd to sit here like everything is normal when it isn’t.

“Hello gentlemen,” Angelica greets them cheerfully. He sees Alex’s eyes widen, and he frowns.

“Angelica Schuyler?”

She grins. “Alexander Hamilton.”

Washington watches the interaction, in confusion, but remembers they met the same night he and Alex did. Oh shit.

“What can I get you to drink?”

“You serve any hard liquor?” the young man asks, and Washington is only half sure he’s joking.

“No,” she mumbles, her eyebrows furrowing in confusion, but then regards Washington skeptically. To Alex, she says, “We have orange juice.”

“I’ll have some of that, then.”

“And for you, sir? Your usual?” she asks Washington.

He smiles politely, and she’s off.

“You come here often?” Alex asks as she’s leaving.

“I do. It’s how I met the girls.” That isn’t really a lie. He met Schuyler before he met his daughters, and he met the girls here, and over casual conversation, came to find that Senator Schuyler (and capo in the Syndicate) had three daughters, and they all worked here. “Their orange juice is pretty good.”

“God, what am I doing?” Alex groans, putting his head down.

A bit confused, Washington watches him, without a response.

“I’m sorry,” Alex mumbles, forehead still buried into his folded arms. “I’m a mess.”

“That you are,” Washington chuckles, running a hand through Alexander’s hair. “What happened today?”

The boy is silent, but he sits up, and stares at the table intensely before saying, “I think I lost my job today.”

“What?”

“I cursed out my boss. I threw my shield. I had to be escorted out.” He sighs. “I lost my home, a few weeks ago. My father, a few weeks before that. I _just_ turned 25.” He looks down at his hands. “What am I doing, George?”

Washington sighs. He isn’t sure. He doesn’t even know what _he’s_ doing, for God’s sake. His heavy hand rests on Alex’s, across the table. “You still have a whole life ahead of you. It isn’t the end of the world. We’ll figure it out.”

“That’s my thing,” Alex frowns. “It’s not your responsibility to figure it out.”

“That’s why I said we’ll do it together.”

“I cry a lot,” Alex breathes, still staring at the placemats.

“For a good reason.”

“I do a lot of dumb shit.”

“With good intentions.”

“I called my boss a roundworm, George,” Alex frowns.

Okay, so maybe that wasn’t the best form of an insult. “That’s okay.”

“I loved my job,” he says suddenly, glaring over at Washington. “And I just killed all those years of hard work because I couldn’t keep my goddamn _mouth_ shut.”

“Alex, you made a mistake. People do that sometimes.”

“No, people don’t just lose their jobs because they call their boss a parasite and are almost killed by their best friend who was somehow in the mafia that they’re ironically hunting down! People don’t just _do that_ sometimes, George!” He’s gotten a bit loud, and a few people glance over at him, and he flushes, muttering a few apologies. To Washington, he says, “I get over-excited. Shoot off at the mouth.”

“You’re going to have to swallow your pride and apologize like a man.”

“No, he’s going to have to beg _me_ to come back. Once he sees I was right, he’ll know he needs me.”

Washington rolls his eyes. “Alex. Be realistic. You have to be the one to fix this. And you can’t be upset if things don’t go your way.”

“Man, fuck him,” the youth mutters. “I’m gonna solve Capet’s case on my own.”

“You’re not a detective anymore, how are you going to do that?”

Alex grins. “Exactly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly I think in the back of our minds, we all saw this coming
> 
> drop a comment ❤


	27. Link

It’s a powerful sneeze. It rattles the glass chandelier and echoes in the hall. From the very depths of those powerful lungs, strong enough to smash diamonds with that beatific voice. It is painful though, as he doubles over, startling his dogs as they scamper away in confusion, bounding out of Washington’s bedroom.

Okay, so maybe George Washington _can_ get sick. It’s all Alex’s fault, though. The little turd hadn’t gotten his flu vaccination and Washington, apparently, had forgotten to get his as well. He massages his closed eyes as Alex soothingly rubs his back. It’s 3:17am, and they’re still awake from earlier, when Washington stumbled out of bed to go dry heave in the bathroom. His head is pounding with a fever he hadn’t felt since childhood. As a sickly child, his immune system had gotten its ass handed to it when flu season rolled around every single year, but eventually, he’d built up a tolerance to fevers and colds. He’d say this cold he has now breaks the streak of about 30-something years of never-getting-sick-ever.

But it’s more than his pride and some silly trivia jeopardized, right now. Right now, his life, 500,000 men’s lives, Alex’s life, and probably the whole country’s lives rest on his shoulders. And all he can do is cough hoarsely, and thank Alex sparingly as he hands Washington another tissue.

God dammit.

“Alex, baby, could you go get me a warm rag?” He feels Sweetlips nudging his feet as she whines, pawing at his leg. “And could you feed Lips? I think I forgot to, I just came up here and crashed.”

“No problem,” he yawns stretching his arms over his head, but he snuggles back down, against Washington’s side, and hugs his bicep. “How does your head feel?”

He rolls his neck, and Sweetlips cries again, but it’s more agitated.

“I’m comin’, I’m comin’,” Alex grumbles as he shoos her off, and follows after her as she excitedly bounds out towards the stairs, turning back to see if Alex is still following her. He is. She’s ecstatic, and clambers down the stairs and excitedly bolts off to the kitchen, with Alex lazily trailing behind her, whistling for Vulcan and Ragman, although Tipsy doesn’t leave his side. Washington is rather fond of dogs. In fact, he wants another. He’s been looking at some Dalmatian puppies.

He checks his phone, ignoring the strain the light has on his eyes. He’d gotten a few texts from Jefferson, asking him to answer his phone. He checks the clock. Would 3:30am be a bad time to call back?

* * *

 

“You need to stop with these all-nighters, Thomas,” James frowns. “Doctor Marley said it isn’t good for you.”

Thomas is only half-listening as he skims his farmer’s atlas, one of the dozens of books open and strewn over his desk. “Yea? And I’m not going to listen to a part-time nurse in blue lipstick.”

“It’s almost 4am.”

No response this time, just a very preoccupied Thomas, scanning the weather for August of 2017 and an annoyed James leaning on the door frame. The all-nighters only ever get this bad when his husband is stressed, and James can’t sleep without Thomas beside him. Thomas’ phone buzzes with a phone call, and James answers, seeing as though Thomas literally hisses at the noise and buries his nose in the book again.

The caller, Washington, speaks first. “Jefferson?”

“This is one of them. How can I help you, Washington?”

“I need the other one.”

With a slight glance at Thomas, who has not looked up, he answers, “He’s busy.”

Washington sighs, and asks, “Can we postpone the dates for Jersey and Delaware?”

“It’s crucial that we act now,” James frowns. “You can’t postpone a war, General.”

“Something’s come up.”

“You sound sick,” he observes. “But we can carry this out, without you. Why don’t you work on electing one of our very own as a presidential candidate for next year’s race? They will need to start campaigning this summer. Have you been thinking like we’ve asked you to?”

Silence, and then, “Could I nominate my boyfriend?”

“The detective?” James asks, bemused. At this, his husband looks up from his books, and mouths _Alexander?_

“He isn’t a detective anymore.”

James is only half sure he’s joking. “He’s young, isn’t he?”

“True. Well, what about Philip Schuyler?”

“Philip Schuyler,” James muses, and at this, Thomas can’t take it anymore. He stands up.

“Put it on speaker,” he demands, and James does. “Hi, Washington.”

“Good morning, Jefferson.”

“Jesus, you sound horrible.” He runs a hand through his afro.

Washington chuckles on the other line. “So, Schuyler?”

“Never,” Thomas frowns. “He would never hold up in the White House. The old man has so many whores, he could start a brothel.”

“What about his eldest daughter?” James muses.

“Too young, unfortunately. The best of us are young.” Washington sounds disappointed. “She would make an excellent politician.”

“Nonsense, the Schuyler girls are good people.”

“What about you, Washington?” Thomas asks, suddenly. “You’re experienced, even-tempered. A leader figure.”

There’s silence, and James laughs. “Don’t tell me you haven’t at least thought about it.”

“I can’t run a mob _and_ be president. What we need is someone with affiliation and loyalty to us, but someone who can’t get wrapped up in all this.”

The three sit in silence, and suddenly, there’s rustling on Washington’s line, and a soft,

“Who are you talking to at 4 in the morning?”

 _That must be his boyfriend_ , James mouths to Thomas, who nods.

“Co-bosses. Telling them I’ll be absent tomorrow, and as long as I need to be to get over this cold.”

James and Thomas exchange frowns at the news. Tomorrow, they’re commanding their 500,000 men to Hartford, Trenton, Dover, and Annapolis. Hopefully their plans don’t backfire and at least one of the states surrender.

“Anyway,” Washington says. “Thanks for your, uh, compassion and support.”

“Get better, George,” Thomas says warmly, for effect. “We’ll send a care basket your way.”

The line clicks, and James is staring at the atlas, now. The thrill of a mob war is a slow one. It’s gradual, and James prefers it that way. Thomas is different. Thomas likes ruthlessness and action, which James considers to be a balancing act. He has the list of capos who are going out of state, to accompany their soldiers. Schuyler, Barnes, Pacon, Thomas, Wayne, and Gray to Connecticut. Lafayette, Lee, Arnold, Howe, and Putnam to Jersey. Montgomery, Paterson, and a few others to Delaware. He forgets who all he’s sending down to Maryland, other than Laurens. At his feet, Putty meows for attention, and he scoops her up into his arms.

“This war, James,” Thomas frowns. “It’s gonna eat us alive.”

He can’t deny that much. The states JWA has conquered so far have been giving them a hard time, and Washington always has the same facial expression, no matter what the situation is.

“I’ve still been thinking about our family,” Thomas continues, and reaches to stroke Putty’s back. “I want a little boy.”

“Hm? You’re still on that?”

Seeming offended, Thomas laughs, “Well, yea. I’ve been on it since I reached my thirties, Jim.” He slumps back on his desk, tilting his head as he observes his husband. “Do you think Washington wishes he had kids?”

“Doesn’t seem to be into the parenting hubbub. Besides, the guy he’s dating looks young enough to be his son.”

Thomas rolls his eyes. “I could picture you with a daughter. A little girl running around, chasing the cat. Schuyler seems happy, doesn’t he? With his three girls?”

“It’s a wonder he raised them as well as he has,” James grumbles, setting down the fussy cat, who scampers off, bumping into a few stacks of books. “Schuyler’s crooked as hell. Tom, families are work. And between me and you, we don’t have the time for it. I mean, we fight over who fed the cat all the time. She’s blind _and_ deaf, for Christ’s sake.”

“So what _do_ you want, James? You never considered having kids?”

“I’ve never really looked at parenting and thought _wow, I’d be great at that_. Plus, you think we could raise healthy kids, with the mindset we have?”

“Yea, but we can change,” Thomas frowns. “You’d never want grandkids?”

“I didn’t say I don’t want to start a family. But it’s not the right time,” he sighs, listens to Putty rustle around in their next room. His eyes drift over to the map, scrawled across the wall with pushpins marking places their soldiers have been. Red for successful, blue for not-so-successful. No blue so far. He sighs. “It’s all about the timing.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, now it's time for the plot to get rolling. 
> 
> drop a comment!


	28. Roses

It’s a wonder Hamilton still has friends. Burr is responding to his frantic texts, reassuring him that all is not lost, and he’ll try to talk to the commissioner to see what’s up. Hercules is MIA. Since Hamilton had lost his job yesterday morning, he spends the day with a sick George, who is bantering with Rosita about his flowers. This is really the first time he and George have been in the house at the same time during the day, and the man is walking around in sweatpants and a t-shirt. Hamilton admires George’s body from his seat on the sofa, where he eats a bowl of oatmeal while watching the news. He can’t stand not keeping busy, but he needs to think of a plan before he hauls his ass back to the precinct, trying to convince Robespierre that he’s worth a second chance. It’s probably what the bastard wants to hear anyway.

“So, there’s a guy in Brooklyn selling purebred Dalmatian puppies,” George says casually to Hamilton from the window. He’s sitting next to his potted plants, reading a book called _Caring for your Asphodel Lilies._ “I was thinking we could go check them out together in a little while.”

“Don’t you have enough dogs?” Hamilton asks, with a sparing glance over at the hounds and spaniels chasing birds in the backyard.

“There’s a really cute one named Madame Moose—” He pauses, takes a few short breaths, and sneezes, toppling back and almost off of his stool.

“Bless you!” He chuckles at the name, and reconsiders it. “Alright. We’ll go see them. But only because her name is Madame Moose.” And then he thinks of Trinity’s stuffed monkey, Moose, and sighs. It’s been a while since he’s seen her, and Hercules probably wants it that way. Considering the shit he put Charlie through, he thinks it’s best to keep a distance from small, innocent children.

Suddenly, there is a loud, steady beep coming from the television, catching even the dogs’ attention, who start howling in severe irritation. The blaring noise startles Rosita, who shrieks, and George’s face grimaces disapprovingly. “New Jersey is calling a state of emergency. Breaking news, there is a major shootout involved between about 40 men in downtown Trenton, and police are being called to the scene. Witnesses say more men are arriving in black SUVs, armed with automatic weapons. The shootout is taking place on North Willow Street, where several men say they heard gunshots at about 11am this morning. A woman and her child were caught between crossfires and are being rushed to the hospital with fatal wounds. No word has been released on their conditio—” she pauses, and Hamilton’s eyes grow wide as live footage from somewhere behind a dumpster pans in on the scene. The camera is shaky, but Hamilton can just barely make out an orange neon cast and a curly puffball and a vaguely familiar man beside him—he nearly throws up.

He flicks the channel, but sees it’s the same thing, just different news reporters. He turns the television off, and stares at himself in the reflection. No one says anything, but the dogs are whining again. Rosita has a tray of cookie dough, just dollops of white mush arranged neatly in rows of three. She stares at Hamilton, and slowly asks,

“Are you alright, Mr. Hamilton?”

“I’m fine.” He sighs and rubs his temples.

If that was Lafayette with a military firearm, it was probably some business dealing with the Syndicate. Okay, so it _is_ the Syndicate. But the Syndicate is New York based—the questions is why are they shooting in Jersey? If he remembers correctly from his lunch-shift-binge-reading-about-super-secret-organizations-in-America-at-the-library-with-Burr-when-he-still-had-his-job-days, Trenton’s mob is generally very docile, but placed between Philly’s mob and New York’s mob, it’s rather tough. And if the Syndicate is attacking Jersey it probably means they’re after something. He’s no mafia expert, but he’s pretty sure there couldn’t be a mass shootout, unless it’s provoked, or part of some greater scheme—but suddenly, it makes sense. Those “random” shootouts in Massachusetts and Pennsylvania last week were probably the Syndicate, too.  But if he’s right in assuming that it _is_ just breadcrumbs to a great plan, what is it? He begins looking for his phone, but he already hears it blowing up with texts from Burr.

* * *

 

“I take it Jersey didn’t surrender.”

“Fuck no, they didn’t surrender. Are you kidding me, Jefferson?”

James sighs. “Back to the drawing board.”

“Where are my _men_?” Washington snarls from the other line. “I don’t give a shit about what happened in Jersey, I want them back home.”

“Patience, Washington,” Thomas coos. “You have to be mindful. We can’t pull them out yet. We’re not going to surrender.”

“People are _dying_ ,” Washington frowns. “Maryland surrendered and Delaware surrendered, but fucking Jersey didn’t and it’s going to set an example.”

“Then we’ll turn them _into_ examples,” James replies calmly. “We’ll show them what happens when they try to defy us. Washington, your men will be safe. According to Lee, there have been no major casualties on our behalf. Soldiers died, but we haven’t lost any capos.”

“And besides, if we have five capos in Jersey, each capo has 100 soldiers. That’s 500 men right there, total. Imagine when our seven capos from Maryland make that 45 minute flight with their 700 men to downtown Trenton. Or if those six capos and their 600 soldiers from Delaware make their two hour drive down to Trenton.” Thomas sounds wickedly pleased.

Washington pauses to sneeze, and nearly drops the phone. “Have you made the call to Maryland, yet?” Laurens is in Maryland. Laurens can’t get caught up in Trenton—but Lafayette is in Trenton, too, and he knows Lafayette’s soldiers are on the frontlines. Fucking Lafayette was on the news, for God’s sake. How come he hadn’t gotten that cast off yet?

“Bless you. We did, about a half hour ago. All 700 of them should be arriving shortly.”

“Fuck,” he groans, dragging a hand over his face. His eyes are hot and his head is pounding. “We should be there with them.”

“No, the capos are there.”

Washington frowns. “We’re commanding this… _army_ of sorts. It’s a bitch move not to be fucking out there with them, while they’re dying, Jefferson.”

“Fair. But you’d be a target.”

“I’d be a _leader_. Fuck you.”

“Let’s keep a cool head,” James mediates. “Look, I know you’re upset, Washington, but it’s going to be fine. The team we sent to Maryland already has the mob boss’s head. Delaware is working on it currently.”

Washington asks, “What about Connecticut? Schuyler is in Hartford, Connecticut, isn’t he?”

Thomas chuckles, and Washington rolls his eyes. “Yes, he is. They’re working on negotiation. What’s-his-face said they agreed to come back to New York.”

“There is no ‘coming back to New York.’ Tell Schuyler to kill that motherfucker or I’ll kill them both.” So maybe it’s true Washington has a bit of tension with Hartford, but he has no room for negotiation when his men are dying in New Jersey and he can’t stop sneezing. “I want three Hartford capos and three hundred men in Trenton. I’ll send my plane to get them. That’s, what, an hour flight?”

“An hour and some change,” James calculates.

“Get Pacon, Gray, and Barnes. Schuyler had better kill that fucking boss or I’ll slit his throat my damn self.” He can hear James typing this as he speaks. “Tell Schuyler what I said. I’m on my way.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

The line clicks.

* * *

 

John hates long plane rides because he always gets airsick. Luckily, this is one of the shortest flights he’s ever been on, considering he’s flown from Ney York to California and back in a two-day period. But these jets are sort of like limos, and have a ton of space. He’s on his way up to Trenton, and the cooler beside him occupying the late head of Elk is lodged between the pile of firearms, a stack of license plates, and a wine cooler. He hums along to some overplayed pop song, tapping his foot as he watches the clouds float by. He was getting update texts from Lafayette and Hercules, who are currently staked out with their rifles in a crawlspace under a post office. He can’t text them anymore, because his signal is gone at the altitude he’s at, but to his knowledge, the men were ambushed. Which means someone told Trenton that the troops were coming in the first place. Which means someone in their army is a rat. Wait till the General hears about this.

The pilot announces that they’ll be arriving shortly, and John exchanges glances with a fellow capo. He pats the cooler and grins at a job well done. But Trenton is a different story, and once they land, it’s war.

* * *

 

Hamilton has showed up on Burr’s doorstep for the first time, and as he knocks, he feels a bit odd about it. But Burr only lives a few blocks from George’s house, and he figures he can get back there in time to go with George to see the puppies. It’s a cute date that he’s looking forward to, but right now he’s focused on the Syndicate, more intensely than he’s ever been before.

“Alex?” Burr answers the door in his coat, one glove on, the other in his hand. “What are you doing here?”

“You don’t sound happy to see me,” Hamilton responds. “Are you going out, or just getting home?”

“Do you want to come in?” Burr frowns, seeing as though Hamilton is only in a thin fleece hoodie.

 

Inside, Hamilton cozies up by Burr’s fireplace while his former partner brews tea. “So, you’ve seen the news, I assume?”

“Jersey? Yea.” Burr glances back at Hamilton over his shoulder as he gets out two mugs. “You wanna talk about that?”

“I have a theory.”

The man stops, and stares down at Hamilton. He doesn’t seem amused. “What is it?”

“Name every state that’s had these ‘shootouts’ in the past week.”

He thinks for a moment. “Uh, Pennsylvania. Rhode Island. Um, Massachusetts did, too. That was pretty bad.” 

“And now where? New Jersey’s Trenton being held at gun point, Hartford had two guys get shot at a gas station, which almost caught on fire this morning. Some guys from Annapolis, Maryland were kidnapped. Do you see the pattern?” Hamilton’s eyes are bright, and he’s walking toward Burr, who is frozen in thought.

“Nothing’s happened in New York?”

“Think deeper.”

“It’s moving south.”

“Yes,” Hamilton grins. “And?”

“They’re attacking the capitals?” Burr seems uncertain.

“Yes! But guess what else,” Hamilton says, leaning on the counter. “I saw one guy on television, and guess who he looked like.”

“Uh, Michael Boone?”

“He looked just like fucking Lafayette. And so I’m thinking this is a mafia thing.”

“And you…think it’s the Syndicate because nothing’s happened in New York, right?” Burr asks, moving to take the kettle off the stove, which has begun screaming angrily with boiled water.

“ _And_ because Lafayette was there.” He crosses his arms. “It has to be.”

“How do you know it was him and not some guy who just looks like him?”

Hamilton shrugs, but doesn’t appreciate the lack of confidence in his ideas. “Once you’ve known someone for about seven years, you get an idea of what they look like. And when you see that same person marching up to your home with a machine gun hoisted over their soldiers, you don’t forget that, either.” He pauses, and ignores the look of pity Burr gives him. “So, if I see that on television, I’m going to know it was him. It _was_ him. Trust me, he had the orange cast, and everything.”

“Jesus, he’s still wearing that?”

Hamilton shrugs. “I’m not sure how long it takes for a wrist to heal. I think he broke it or something.”

“Okay, focus. What are you thinking?” Burr asks, tearing open two tea bags and plopping one in each mug. “What about the Jeffersons?”

“What _about_ the Jeffersons?” Hamilton frowns.

“They’re a New York family, too. If the Syndicate has all this sudden manpower and boldness to go marching into other states with guns, maybe they aren’t alone.”

“You think they’re working together?” Hamilton gasps. “Like—like they rebooted the whole thing and are starting over?”

“I don’t know,” Burr laughs. “What are the odds of that happening?”

“Good question,” Hamilton replies faintly, now lost in thought. His thoughts go back to the recording he saw on television earlier, and he could have sworn he saw someone he knew beside Lafayette, but it was too grainy to make out. But he would know those features anywhere. Seven years can make a person familiar anywhere. He frowns. “Burr, was Hercules at work today?”

“Mulligan? Uh, I don’t think so. Haven’t seen him.”

“When’s the last time you saw him?”

“Probably yesterday afternoon when I drove you to that café.” Burr’s bobbing the tea bags up and down, and with a skeptical look over at Hamilton, asks, “Why?”

He sits in thought for another moment, and finally says, “I thought I saw him on television, with Lafayette this morning. You know, in Trenton.”

“With the Syndicate?” Burr hands him his mug as he takes a sip from his own.

“Yea. I mean, they had _huge_ army guns. I don’t know if it was actually him but he isn’t responding to my phone calls. And now that I think about it, he and Lafayette had always… I don’t know, they had a weird chemistry.” He thinks back to when he used to visit Lafayette at the bar almost every evening, and Lafayette would always tell him to give Hercules hugs for him, and would teasingly flirt with Hercules—and he remembers when he told Hercules that he told Lafayette about the case, he didn’t seem too upset—and Hercules was making casual conversation with John Laurens the same night Hamilton met George at the bar—and the same weekend Lafayette tried to kill Hamilton, Hercules went missing—and when Philip Schuyler tried to fight him, George was right there to break it up—and when John and George were fucking, George would whisper so that only John could hear him—and when Hamilton tried to focus on the Syndicate, Hercules would try to refocus him on the Jeffersons—and George, _George_ _Washington_ , has connections to all of these men, in the _Washington Syndicate_.

He drops his mug, and the ceramic glass shatters on the ground, the tea splashing up to his ankles and hands, but he can’t feel the searing liquid on him, and he can’t hear Burr’s shouts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> goddamnit, it's what we've all been waiting for.
> 
> ANNOUNCEMENTS:
> 
> I'm starting a new trend: new updates every Sunday! it gives me a week to write, revise, and edit! I already have 29 written, I just need to revise and edit it, and that should be posted on the 20th!


	29. Everyone's A Rockstar And I'm The Biggest One

There are two ways to live the mob lifestyle. Well, really it’s one way, from two different perspectives. There’s the oligarchy at the top (the 1% that remains untouched and unbothered), then there’s the 99%, seemingly pooling around that 1%’s ankles and leather shiny dress shoes. The 99% does the nitty gritty, in shit conditions, with little reward, and high stress situations. Their gunfire and police sirens don’t seem to move the iron hearts of the 1%, dressed in cashmere and gold. While the rich dine on gourmet meals and the finest wine, their soldiers find solace in scraps and empty stomachs on quiet nights. Soldiers with good capos do a bit better than those with shit capos, but capos are not the boss, and the boss has all the money.

In order to be a mob boss, one must first be respected by those who know him, and unknown by those who don’t. Bosses must have cold, angry hearts with good, sound judgment. It’s a recommended balance to maintain, considering most bosses never seem bothered with the prospect of violence. On top of that, bosses have so many soldiers, that those who see the boss, could never guess that it _is_ the boss. And the boss never knows the face of a soldier. It’s been said that one boss of the Carolinas met a random guy in the bar—and mind you, neither of the gentlemen knew who the other was—and he happened to be a soldier of his. He asked, ‘Who do you work for?’ and the gentleman replied, ‘A Mister Carolina, sir.’ The boss asked, ‘Does he treat you well?’ The gentleman said, ‘Not at all.’ So the boss asked, ‘Is he a good boss?’ The man replied, ‘Not at all.’ And the conversation ended there.

A week or so later, that young man turned up dead, and a friend of his was promoted to a capo.

Promotions.

The way it works is that once a soldier is doing well for the mafia, in terms of earning large sums of money for their capo (who gives it to the boss), they are approached with a proposal and the opportunity to become a capo. They are given a contract, or an assignment to kill a specific person. Now, said victim (soldier or target) cannot escape these words. Once it is said, it is done. A soldier cannot refuse a contract (lest they desire sudden death) and a target cannot escape execution from a determined soldier. Everyone wants to be a capo. The capos are the “middle class” of the mafia food chain. They live comfortable lives (financially), with all the pressure of a soldier and a boss, stuck right in the middle. Their jobs are to command, discipline, guide, and collect from their soldiers, and produce for a boss. When a boss is displeased with a soldier’s work, he lashes out on that soldier’s capo, who in turn lashes out on his other soldiers. Whatever the capos collect from the soldiers, they make a cut. The smart soldiers cut from their income, before they give it to their capos. But contracts don’t happen often, and no one is sure if capos are a part of the 1% or the 99%.

Hercules was given a contract to kill Alexander. It’s been three weeks, and he has yet to complete his goals. He could move up the chain, make a name for himself, make money. He could provide more for Trinity, but that would make everything higher risk, on both of their behalves. He loves Alex, but he loves his daughter more. But there’s no time to think about that, because he’s on the ground, next to a shitty Ford, gun poised, eyes trained on Lafayette, who is speaking into his phone,

“ _Oui_ , we are fine. Please ask J—Sir, he did not say—!” he’s cut off by rapid fire gunshots, and _MAN DOWN, MAN DOWN_! “ _Desole._ He did not say when _Jean_ is arriving, but it would be very soon, I imagine.”

“They landed already,” Hercules says, and Lafayette grins. “They’re going through security as we speak. The cops are trying to barricade this area from all sides of the intersections. They’ll close in on us and we’ll all go down if we don’t think of something.”

Washington, on the line, hears this and asks, “Who is that talking?”

“ _C’est_ Hercules. He is one of my best soldiers!” he can hear the Frenchman practically swell with pride.

“Get him on the phone, Lafayette.”

Hercules awkwardly accepts the cellphone being handed to him. “Hello—?”

“Son, listen up. This is the General.”

He nearly drops the damn phone, hand shaking. “Yes, sir.”

“You said something about a barricade. What was it?”

“Uh, well, the downtown block is basically a giant square with four major intersections on each side, if you can imagine that.”

“I’m listening.”

“I’m thinking the whole fuckin’ police force can show up and block off each of those intersections and close in on us.” Hercules has seen them doing drug busts before. They surround the house on all sides. The only difference is that now, they’re on the block with guns.

“How do you know that?” his voice is demanding, but curious.

“I infiltrate the NYPD, sir. I know their tactics, I studied them. I’m a soldier in Lafayette’s army, and I still have my radio.”

He can hear a chuckle crackle through the speaker, and Hercules is glad the man in amused. “Alright. What do you propose?”

Hercules can barely hear him over a sudden cracking of bullets hitting pavement and men shouting commands. “We need to divide the men coming in from Maryland. If the police beat them here, we can at least have them coming in, attacking the police. If they beat the cops for us, they can definitely aid us on getting out.”

The General seems to consider it. “Then what? You escape?”

“We’ve evenly matched the Trenton mob, Mr. General. If we have more men coming in, we can cover the police force _and_ the mob, and still have time to escape.” Hercules pauses, then flushes at Lafayette’s look of amazement.

“I like you,” the General says with deep satisfaction. “What’s your name?”

“Hercules, sir.”

“I like that name. You keep it up, and I’m gonna make you rich, boy.”

He doesn’t respond, because his heart is too busy jackhammering through his ribs and onto the pavement so much that he thinks it’ll cause an earthquake.

But the General simply says, “Keep me posted,” and the line clicks.

“Hercules!” Lafayette shrieks. “ _C’était génial!_ You were amazing!”

He hands the phone back bashfully, and repositions himself so that his elbows aren’t digging into the concrete. “Just being a team player.”

* * *

 

Laurens is currently waiting in the security check line, watching men women and children shuffle along in their bubble coats, dragging their suitcases with them. The airlines have called a sudden safety hazard check on arriving flights into Jersey, in regards to the sudden state of emergency. Behind him, his 706 capos and soldiers have divided up into groups, or are travelling alone to keep from seeming too suspicious, dressed in harmless attire, chatting about weather, travel times, and fishing trips. Laurens’ phone buzzes in his pocket with a call from Washington, and he answers it lightheartedly, “Hey. What’s cracka-lackin?”

“Save the banter. Listen. I need you to divide up the capos and send them in to barricade the downtown streets. A soldier told me what the police may be planning, and it sounds legit. Even if it isn’t, I need you to march in from four different intersections, in case the police have already gotten there.”

Laurens frowns. “A soldier in Trenton told you that?”

“Yea. You understand what I’m telling you?”

“Boss, I’ve been thinkin’,” Laurens begins idly. “Because…Well, from what I heard from Laf, Trenton was damn well prepared when our men reached Jersey. They knew our tactics and have been holdin’ out for a good two hours now.”

“So?” Washington asks. “What do you think?”

“I’m thinkin’ somebody tipped ‘em off. An’ I’m thinkin’ it was that rat soldier who told you them plans.” He hears a few capos and soldiers behind him mutter swears from overhearing Laurens’ conversation, but he pays no mind. He’s paired with a woman capo and a young, male soldier. They look like a family of three, despite the fact that she and Laurens look too young to have a kid as mature as the solider looks.

“You think it was the one who told me about the police barricades?—” and there’s a light smack. Washington must have face palmed. “Shit. _Shit_.”

“What’s wrong, boss?”

“You tell me,” he growls. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“Next.” The security agent, sitting at the post calls, motioning for Laurens’ family of three. They’ll be the first group to go through security. If anyone blows it, they’ll probably have to shoot up the whole damn airport, but they’re on a time constraint here.

“I gotta go, boss.”

“Find that kid and kill him. He’s with Lafayette.”

“You got it.”

“We’re losing time, money, energy, and men, the longer you stay in Jersey, Laurens. Get in there and get out.” The line clicks.

The female capo, Ross, smiles promptly at Laurens and asks, “Nervous?”

“Don’t be,” the soldier, Hale, says quickly. “They can smell it.”

Laurens helps drag the suitcases to the checkpoint station, to where a big, hairy man is sitting. It seems as though he has hair everywhere, except for his head, and he peers down at the young trio, just long enough to ask, “Boarding passes and ID, please.”

Ross and Laurens exchange glances, and the soldier—just fifteen years old—says, “I don’t have an ID, sir.”

He asks, “How old are ya?”

“Fifteen, sir,” Hale responds.

And the security officer, whom doesn’t seem mean as much as disinterested, types something and asks, “Date of birth?”

“Uh, January 12th, 2002.”

The guy types, nods, and turns his attention to Laurens.

He slides his boarding pass and ID onto the counter, along with Ross’, and waits.

The man glances at the IDs (with a half look up at the two) and then scribbles on their boarding passes with a bland, “Have a nice day, folks. Next.” They start to shuffle towards the baggage check, to where the dogs and security guards stand, awaiting them.

3 down, 704 to go.

* * *

 

Hell no.

Fuck no.

Fuck this.

Fuck him.

Hamilton’s eyes are blurry with tears, and he grabs hold of the counter to keep from falling over.

“Alex?” Burr’s voice is shaking. “Alexander? Can you hear me?”

His mouth is gaping but his throat is tight. He squeezes his eyes shut. Breathe. Breathe. A wave of nausea hits him, and his hands tense on the granite countertops—or maybe they’re marble, he doesn’t know. Burr seems like a marble-kind-of-guy. But FUCK IT, WHY IS HE THINKING ABOUT COUNTERTOPS WHEN EVERYONE HE FUCKING KNOWS IS IN THE MAFIA? He’s amazed that he hasn’t dissolved to tears. A sobbing mess on the floor, crying about fairness. It seems as though he can no longer cry. He’s had maybe three meltdowns in the past two weeks. All he can do is stare at Burr’s Christmas tree in silence.

“Alex,” Burr tries again slowly.

“Aaron, why the fuck do you still have a Christmas tree up and it’s the first week of February?”

“Excuse me?” Burr frowns. He stares at the mess of shattered glass and tea on the floor, Alex’s tear-streaked face, and all the man can say for himself is ‘why is your Christmas tree up?’ “Alex, you look like you just saw a _ghost_. What’s going on with you?”

Hamilton wipes his cheeks and sighs. Then, very carefully and very quietly, he asks with a trembling voice, “Did you know Hercules was in the Syndicate, Burr?”

Silence. Then, “After Marie got Charlie, we talked about it.”

Hamilton’s entire body wracks with rage, but his face gives no sign of it. He’s watching Burr with calm, observing eyes. It’s a bit eerie, because Burr’s never seen this expression on his partner. His eyes are dark and glazed over. His face has lost all color, and he looks dead, almost. Almost.

“Fine,” Hamilton continues. “What about George? Did you know George was in the Syndicate?”

“Yes.”

Hamilton, this time, seems to have a response, but it’s slight. “How.”

“When you were chasing Laurens, Lafayette saw Washington chasing you into the alley. He told us that the two of you were together and that Washington was the General, and Hercules and I put two and two together.” Burr looks down at his feet. “I wasn’t permitted to tell you.”

There’s a huff of laughter that erupts from Hamilton, and it transforms into roaring laughter, shaking the glasses in their cupboards. He doubles over, wiping tears, and spares a glance at Burr, who is oddly watching the spectacle without words.

“You weren’t _permitted_ to tell me that my boyfriend and _only_ friend were in the very mafia that killed my role model and almost killed me?” Hamilton asks, bemused. “You weren’t _permitted_ to protect me? You weren’t _permitted_ to defend me, or be on my side, or be fucking **HONEST WITH ME**?” His smile fades, and he’s stalking dangerously toward Burr, who takes a few steps back. “Who are you working for, Aaron Burr?”

“No one, Alex. I’m with you.”

“You’re with me?” he mocks, voice light. “Are you? Because you didn’t show up until I started hunting the Syndicate. You were hanging right around the corner when Lafayette was hunting me that night. You knew _exactly_ what to do when we got Charlie. You and George clashed on sight.” Hamilton’s eyes are gleaming. “Everyone tells me I’m fucking crazy, or I’m paranoid, but I can always feel when motherfuckers are doing dirt.”

“You’re not crazy.” It’s a ghost of a whisper from Aaron Burr, who tenses at Hamilton’s grimace.

“I’m gonna ask you again. _Who do you work for_?”

“I’m undercover.”

“What?”

“I work in the FBI. I’m undercover right now,” and he points to a bookshelf. “In that black box is my ID and shield. My papers, my false ID, legal docs.”

“… _What_?”

“I couldn’t tell you. I shouldn’t have, I could lose my job. You can’t say _anything_ to anybody.”

“Burr—”

“Alex, if you blow this, my entire life is in jeopardy. Just drop it, okay?” There’s momentary regret in his words, and knowing Hamilton, he shouldn’t have just blurted it out like that.

Hamilton frowns. “What are you doing _here_?”

“I can’t tell you that, Alex.”

“Is your name even Aaron Burr?”

“ _Alex_.” It’s curt. A warning. He shouldn’t have even said that much.

“Sorry.” Hamilton rubs his face, but then glares at Burr. He reconsiders it with a moment of scrutiny, turning it over in his mind. “No fucking way are you an FBI agent.”

Burr smiles oddly, and says, “This investigation has been going on for a few months now. I was lucky to get on the harbor case with you.”

“So you’re not here to hunt down the Syndicate?”

“Let’s just say I’m here to get the Jeffersons,” Burr responds coolly, and looks down at the floor again. “My mom gave me that mug.”

Hamilton flushes, and steps out of the puddle. “Sorry. Uh, I need to go see George.”

“You need to stay _here_. Do not say anything to him about what you know. It’s safer if you don’t.”

The boy frowns, and moves to grab the broom. “What do I do?”

“Act normal.”

“You want me to ‘act normal’ when I just fucking realized—because I’m a _goddamn idiot_ and can’t take a hint—that nobody in my life is who they say they fucking are? What, I’m just supposed to go home and give him head and watch _Family Feud_ with him until I fall asleep or some shit, like he’s not a mafia godfather?” Hamilton’s face is flushed red by the time he’s done berating Burr—or, whatever the hell his name is.

“If that’s what you normally do, then yes,” Burr says thoughtfully. “You can’t raise suspicion because that would agitate an open wound, Alex. Especially if you suspect the Syndicate to be up to something major in the region…You have to understand that it would be entirely too dangerous to go kick that door down and demand he tell you everything. That could get you killed. Or worse.”

“But George wouldn’t hurt me,” Hamilton frowns, and gets a funny taste in his mouth as he says it. Would he?

“He’s a boss for a reason, Alex. He’s charming and compassionate but he’s a cold-blooded killer whom reigns over thousands of other cold-blooded killers. _He_ _doesn’t_ _care_.”

His voice is dangerously low. “You don’t know him.”

“And you do?” It’s shot back. Immediate. As if Burr knew what to expect, as if Burr knew what Hamilton was going to say before he said it.

Hamilton’s eyes sting with tears, and suddenly he’s embarrassed. His face is burning, and he realizes that he never considered being caught in this predicament. Who does? He shuts his mouth and it’s dry. He suddenly needs to go home. He needs to see George. He needs closure, but he needs comfort, and he needs _George._ “Don’t talk about him like you know him, Burr. He’s had plenty of opportunities to do worse things to me, but he’s only ever been kind to me.”

“And that’s all fine and dandy. But he’s much more dangerous than you could ever imagine, Alexander.”

“Fuck you.”

“You cannot be defending him!” Burr frowns, eyes narrowing. “You _trust_ him?”

“Maybe I do. And maybe it’ll get me killed, but you let me handle that.”

“Alex, I’m not gonna let you die because you’re an idiot.”

“You were gonna let me die at the hands of Lafayette, Hercules, and George before, so I don’t see what the difference is now,” Hamilton spits.

“Hercules was trying to _save_ you,” Burr corrects. “You have no idea what he’s gone through to keep you safe.”

“And I suppose the same thing goes for my boyfriend, right?” Hamilton asks, crossing his arms angrily.

“We suspected George was just using you, at first. Hercules was trying to get you out of the country, but his capo is Lafayette.”

It all makes fucking sense.

Hamilton lets out a deep groan, but it’s echoed in the empty halls. He passes a hand over his face, and listens to Burr sweep the clattering glass from the puddle of tea, mumbling in quiet disappointment about his mother’s mug. As it’s thrown into the trashcan, Hamilton grabs his fleece jacket and flings it over his shoulder.

He’s going to see George this very instance, and that FBI agent can fucking blow him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Joe Biden Day. Chapter 30 will be up on Bill Nye Day! Have a happy Thanksgiving & enjoy your break!


	30. Poor Washington's Almanac

Hercules’ sentiments regarding the Syndicate are conflicting and unabashedly contradicting. On one hand, he despises this organized crime family and all the injustice that has befallen the world in its path of ardent destruction. On the other, he admires its soldiers and capos like a fool and has every intention of following their path to fame and unprecedented power. He dreams of the glamorous lifestyle he could someday be living. He envisions the gold rings on his thick fingers, and how diamond studded earrings would look on his darling Trinity, twinkling through her coarse, curly hair. His main goal in life is to achieve that cursed rank as capo, but it’s getting more and more difficult to achieve anything at all when he constantly has Lafayette shouting in his ear. He wants a nice boat and big money. He wants nice cars and flashy jewelry, and he wants to buy his mom a _house_. He wants Trinity to have dinner every night, he wants to be his own man, not _Soldier #1116_. He rubs his wrist from where it’s dug into the concrete, and exchanges glances with Lafayette, rapidly texting someone. John, he assumes.

The shootouts are normally pretty drawn out. There are bouts of silence, maybe two or three minutes long, before they can hear gravel crunching and shots being fired again. From what Hercules remembers, a few of his buddies made it to the roof, and are reporting down to Lafayette via phone call. They’re resisting the urge to fire at the Trenton boys, because for some reason, none of them have very good aim.

“Do you see the police?” Lafayette asks, scanning the scene with tired eyes. “Because I cannot.”

The conversation continues, with Lafayette fussing the men out, and Hercules daydreaming of a better life. One where he wasn’t born into dirt poverty, where he didn’t serve as a scapegoat. Where his money wasn’t temporary. Where _he’d_ get to give orders and provide for his daughter and maybe he could have saved his late wife. He sighs, repositions himself to where the sidewalk isn’t jutting into his hip. Maybe in another life.

* * *

 

“Step right here, sir,” John hears one of the security officers instruct a random woman as she enters the metal detector. He’s shoving his carryon onto the conveyor belt and shrugging out of his bubble coat, ignoring Hale and Ross’ casual conversation. His mind is racing. He’s been in more trouble than this before. He’s smuggled heroine through the US borders, he’s smuggled cocaine in from Peru. Hell, he’s travelled with half a million dollars in a briefcase, and another four million stashed in his carryon. But those times, he was travelling alone, and only had to worry about himself. Today, he’s with almost a thousand people, and he can’t keep up with all of them. If one person blows it, they’re all done for. He makes eye contact with security agent sitting behind the x-ray machine, scanning each bag. He doesn’t recognize him the way he should, and he whispers to Ross,

“Shit. Don’t tell me that guy isn’t with us.” Normally, bosses buy out the staff, or provide their own in certain airports, and usually they’re soldiers. He isn’t sure how other bosses do it, but he knows the General is very specific with when and where his staff should be when his capos and soldiers are coming through.

“Yea, that’s my soldier,” Ross says simply, and glances at John. “You okay?”

He shrugs, and feels a bit better. Okay, so the alarm won’t go off when they get past these checkpoints. The fucking detector _should_ be disabled, or at least hijacked, so the arms should get through without a problem. Hell, the booze should get through without a problem. If one soldier is undercover, the rest of them are, too. Finally, his coat comes off, and he enters the metal detector booth, hands up, legs spaced and placed on the large footprints, indicating where his feet should be. He makes sure not to lift his arms too high, or someone may see the pistol tucked into his pants, on his back, or the chrome pistols, tucked in his boots. The machine whirs and it’s over. No loud beeping, no warning signs. He’s fine, and that means so is everyone else.

The guards remain stoic, and step aside to allow him to recollect his things.

One of them, he recognizes him, winks at John, and he feels his heart flutter with relief.

Perfect.

They’ll be in Trenton in no time.

* * *

 

“Great,” Washington responds, at the news. “Make sure you divide your men up, Laurens.”

“Yes sir,” the capo responds, and hangs up.

Washington is on the way to his office, to clear up some apparent business with Rochambeau that couldn’t wait until Friday—tomorrow—to fix. His head is killing him, and all this businessman business is killing him, too. At this rate, he’ll miss the meeting he scheduled with that Dalmatian guy, and Alex will probably be upset. Trenton should be over in a matter of moments, and his Hartford troops should be home soon. Even with everything potentially coming to a close, he feels anything but triumphant. Not only did he put thousands of his men in danger, but he wasn’t even there with them to inspire courage. They probably think he’s at home, drinking wine or doing something an evil rich man would do. They probably don’t even realize what he would _give_ to be there. The haphazard plan the Jefferson men threw together probably ended up getting a lot of men killed, and that’s a weight on Washington’s shoulders. He can conduct men in money laundering and stealing heavy machinery, but not in warfare. Washington never thought he’d live in the midst of a mob war—especially not one planned by him.

He just wishes he would have been there to march with his men.

But at the same time, how could he mysteriously disappear without Alex getting some suspicion—that he had gone to Trenton the same day the shootouts occurred? At the very least, the boy would be scared to death. The traffic is slow, and Washington takes it as an opportunity to think. He should tell Alex. The way things are looking with their mob business, he’ll find out sooner or later. And he’s already tried to tell him before. But maybe this time, he can tell him for real.

He sighs.

The last thing he wants is for Alexander to find out from someone _other_ than Washington. It’d make it seem like Washington never wanted him to find out.

But how can he break the news to him? 

Clearly, the boy will be in some state of shock, and he’ll need proof, but also time to think, and he’ll probably hit Washington and stomp off. But he hopes that’s the most he’ll do. Maybe he could show him the office. All his men and what he does, and how it works. Maybe Alex wouldn’t be so upset.

He scoffs at his own idea.

He’s a fucking idiot if he doesn’t think Alex won’t kick his ass.

He needs a second opinion, and so he scrolls through his contacts, presses call, and holds the phone to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Uncle Ben,” Washington greets.

“George!” Benjamin greets warmly. “How can I help you?”

“I need your advice,” he says awkwardly. If anyone is clever enough to help him, it’s Benjamin Franklin. “So I was thinking, should I—”

“Do it.”

He’s dumbstruck. “Huh?”

“Whatever it is,” Ben continues. “I want you to do it.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say,” Washington frowns. This needs a lot more thought than a snap of judgment. This is a life-ruiner x10.

“That doesn’t matter, child,” Ben goes on, a laugh detected in his throat. “You spend too much time calculating.”

That isn’t even half true. If Washington had a nickel for every time he’s acted on impulse under the illusion that it was logic, he’d have enough money to move to the Bahamas under a secret alias and adopt twelve purebred Dalmatians. He already has more than enough money to do all of that. He frowns. “Okay, but—”

“Do you love life, George Washington?”

He’s silent. So, maybe Uncle Ben wasn’t the best option to call. “Yes…?”

“Then do not squander time. That’s what life’s made of.”

A beat of silence.

He’s right.

“Thanks, Uncle Ben.”

After a moment of brief encouragement, the call ends, and he dials Nat’s number, and waits for him to pick up.

“Hey boss,” his underboss greets. “You’re keeping up with Trenton?”

“We have it under control. Listen, I actually wasn’t calling about Trenton. I need a favor.”

“Anything,” the man replies, eagerly. “Say the word and it’s done.”

“I need you to swing by my house and pick up Alexander.”

“Your boyfriend?” Nat asks. “And do what with him?”

“Bring him to the office. I’ve got something I want to show him.”

* * *

 

As he’s speed-walking down the block, toward George’s neighborhood, Hamilton’s going over the conversation again and again in his head. He knows Burr told him not to say anything about it, and now that he considers it, he realizes that’d be his best option. He can’t just walk in there, gung-ho and belligerent. Though he has every right to do so.

He stops at the crosswalk, anxiety pooling in his bones when his heart drops and his stomach turns. What is he supposed to say? _I thought you were honest? I thought you were normal? I thought you were safe?_ Well, because George has never hurt him, even after he had _so many opportunities_. He’s seen Hamilton in his most vulnerable states, plenty of times, but he’s only ever stroked his hair and called him beautiful.

 _No_. He knew Hamilton was a detective. Because Lafayette pointed him to _Ad Hoc_ , and Hamilton brought Hercules with him. The sisters set him up, and George “rescued” him. Hercules was with Laurens.  They _set him up_ , and now that he’s figured it out, George will have no choice _but_ to kill him. He’ll say, ‘I’m sorry, Alex,” he’ll say, ‘Don’t think about it too much.’ He’ll say, ‘Someone will remember us, even in another time,’ and he’ll say it while he’s holding Hamilton’s fragile heart in one hand, and a sledgehammer in the other.

But what about those nights, where all Hamilton could think about was George, and his love would hold him inescapably close to his chest and tell him stories about his childhood? What about those dinners by candlelight, or George’s voice, low and liquid gold in his ears? Did it mean nothing then? Because Hamilton could have sworn that it meant everything in those moments. To both of them.

But—but if he loved Hamilton, wouldn’t he have been honest?

Or, maybe he was trying to protect him…

A migraine is developing behind his left eye, pulsing dully as a warning.

Maybe this is all some sick, contrived joke, and Hamilton will go back to George’s house and see a surprise party. Capet and Hercules and George will be there. And maybe things will turn out okay, and he can go back home to Nevis and forget about everyone… But what about _Burr_? This is the first time Hamilton has been alone in a while, and now that he thinks about it, he’s not sure what to believe. His fingers are numb and his body shudders with the dry air tearing at his flesh.

If Burr really _is_ an FBI agent, why hasn’t he shut Hercules, Lafayette, John, and George down? And if he’s after the Jeffersons, why hasn’t he made more of an effort to track them down? Maybe he has, but on some Top Secret Mission type shit. Something Hamilton wouldn’t know anything about. Plus, maybe that explains Burr’s intricate knowledge of the Syndicate and the Jefferson’s history, when he went on that whole rampage when they first started working the Harbor Bodies case.

He stops himself.

This is his problem.

Always giving motherfuckers the benefit of the doubt.

They’ve earned his trust, and even after they betray him in the worst ways, he continues to _trust_ them—he hates himself for it, but that’s what he gets. He’s certain he’ll learn his lesson sooner or later. At this point, his options are dying alone, or dying at the hands of a certain mob boss. He hopes it’s the latter, somewhere in the back of his mind.

He nears George’s home, and he can’t see a car in the driveway. Odd. At the front door, he lets himself in, calling out to George and Rosita, but there is no response. The lights are off and the curtains are closed, so the rooms are dim, with no light at all. He sees a sticky-note on the mirror, in Rosita’s handwriting— _took the dogs for a walk. Be back soon!_ and Hamilton frowns. He calls a little louder, but there’s still no response. Did George fucking leave? His mind races to Burr, the only one who could have given George a heads-up that Hamilton was on his way back.

His anger overwhelms him, and his arm darts out, grabbing the first thing he can, smashing it onto the glossy hardwood floors. “FUCK. FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!” He screams, tearing framed portraits off of the crème walls, flipping the simple table, holding up a glass lamp. He throws whatever he can find, smashing it into the walls and the floor, and he doesn’t stop until his chest is heaving and he can’t breathe right.

In the midst of his mess, he sits with his back against the wall, head hanging between his legs, holding himself tightly. His mind is racing, heart charging in his chest. This is good. This is okay. He knows where George keeps his money. He can pack up and buy a ticket to Nevis before George ever comes back. In fact, he could forge some papers and assume a new identity, entirely. No one will be able to track him down, and he’ll live an unmitigated life in the Caribbean, with no one but himself. He won’t be surrounded by mobsters and liars and FBI agents—and he’ll probably become a hermit.

He hears footsteps a car door shut, and his body goes rigid. If that’s George, his entire plan has fallen to shit. He practically sprints across the room, diving behind the couch and scooting back so that his entire body fits behind the large sofa. He peaks around it in the corner of the room as the kitchen door swings open, and he sees a tall, lanky man walk in, wearing all black and a ski mask. Holy fucking _shit_. His eyes tear up and he’s watching in horror as the intruder looks around, scanning the terrain. Hamilton doesn’t recognize him (even under the mask), but stays silent.

“Shit, what happened here?”

There’s another voice, a twinge of a British accent, and he says, “That doesn’t matter. Let’s find what we’re looking for and go. He’ll be back any minute now.”

 “Looks like someone trashed his place.” And after a moment, “Look, the front door’s open and everything.” Shit, Hamilton must have forgotten to close it. “What if the General is already dead?” the first voice asks hesitantly, stepping over shards of glass and broken ceramic.

“Then our work is halfway done.” Metal clinks, and it sounds like a barrel being snapped shut into a revolver. Hamilton’s mouth goes dry. “Find that safe.”

His eyes are wide and his heart is panging in his chest. Terror consumes him, and he realizes that they’re about to ransack George’s home. He should do something—but with what vest and gun? Okay, so maybe it’d be a better idea to stay hidden.

“Hey, Rich, look at this!” one voice calls from what sounds like George’s study.

“Is it the safe with those fucking papers?” the other, (Rich, Hamilton’s assuming), calls. “If not, I don’t want to see it.”

This is no ordinary burglary. Hamilton keeps his head low and his eyes trained on the floor. He feels like he’s back in that janitor closet, watching through the slits of the door as Lafayette tried to get into his apartment. He nearly pukes, but it comes out as a dry heave, and he covers his mouth to keep quiet. He can’t freak out now. That could get him killed, and he needs to not die. If he makes it out alive, he’ll remember the name “Rich.” Or was it “Rick?” He frowns.

“This house is too fucking big to find a safe in ten minutes,” Rich growls, stalking around the living room. “But it’s now or never.”

“Rosita said no one was coming back, right?”

Hamilton’s teeth grate.

“She said the General went to the office. He was in a rush. On the phone, or something. The boy he’s with ran out of the house an hour ago. She said he shouldn’t be back for a while. She left that back window open for us. Now listen, you little punk,” Rich commands. “Don’t chicken out on me now. We have to find those papers. Once we have those, we’re invincible.”

“Right,” the first guy says. “But how are we supposed to find something and we don’t know where it is?”

“You look for it, you dumb bastard!” Rich yells, and cuffs him upside the head. “I don’t wanna hear another word from you, or this is coming out of your paycheck.”

Obediently, the other keeps his mouth shut. They set to work, tearing the house apart, books and clothes and personal items strewn about. They leave nothing untouched, the bookshelves and tables overturned. George’s once-tidy apartment becomes a heap of trash and broken glass. George has a lot of glass. After what feels like a lifetime, a car door slams shut outside and Rich growls, “You hear that?”

There are keys jingling at the front door, and they can vaguely hear a man’s voice on the other side, muffled and hearty.

“Shit! We gotta go.” It’s a hissed whisper, and he crouches to the floor.

“Huh?”

“C’mon, Ben, shut the fuck up and move!”

And just like that, it’s over. They charge back through the kitchen door, and through the window that they came from, and Hamilton hears their car starting. Its engine purrs as they pull off, and Hamilton rises slowly to see the extent of the collateral damage.

He stares at the ground, taking it all in.

The front door swings open, and he’s met with Mr. Greene, staring at him with wide, blank grey eyes. Hamilton must look absolutely ridiculous—panic-stricken, face paled, hair a mess, clothes disheveled, standing behind a couch with the rest of the apartment torn to shreds.

Neither of them speak, and all Mr. Greene does is drop his bags in shock.

Whatever George Washington is involved in, it’s dangerous.

But Hamilton figures he may as well stick around to see him through all of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the plot thickens, but not even really because our favorite revived mafia family association has it all under control (but not really.)   
> Happy Sunday!


	31. The Resurrection

At first, it’s silent. Well, it’s almost silent, but the faint ticking of a grandfather clock on its heavy side is dominating the almost-silence warily.

Neither Greene or Hamilton move, but it’s only slightly awkward because they’re still staring at each other.

“Uh…”

“Someone broke in?” Greene finally asks. “Are you alright?”

Hamilton’s breathing is being compromised by a sudden wave of panic, and his aching heart is pounding through his fucking ribcage. His blood pressure must be through the fucking _roof_. That’s not good. “Uh…” he’s at a loss for words, and his body tenses. He motions to Greene in distress, but it’s too late, because he’s gagging and dry heaving over the sofa. Greene looks away to spare the boy some dignity as he relieves the nausea in the corner of the room.

Taking off his suit jacket, the underboss strides over to the boy and helps him to his feet. “You’re not hurt are you?”

“Get the fuck off me,” Hamilton snarls, jerking his arm away and shaking the offered jacket off of his shoulders. He is hurt, just not where this jerk can see. His mind is racing. Too much is happening way too quickly, and he’ll be damned if he’s alone with Mr. _You’re Not Leaving This House On My Watch_ again. Where the hell is Rosita?

“Actually, I have orders to escort you out,” Greene replies casually, kneeling to dust off Hamilton’s jeans. He picks up his Calvin Klein suit jacket while he’s at it.

Hamilton growls wryly, “You touch me again, and I’ll beat your ass, Greene, don’t try me.”

“You’ll thank me later,” Greene lifts an eyebrow, and looks around the destroyed pent in frustration. “Washington will be none too happy to hear about this. He’ll be glad you’re safe, though,”

“Fuck him,” Hamilton snaps, eyes tearing up. “And fuck you if you think I’m going anywhere near him. I know why you’re here.”

“Then you know I can’t disobey a direct order.”

Hamilton’s prepared for a cut scene of him being dragged out of George’s pent, unconscious, but instead Greene shrugs. He finds it a bit odd and discomforting in the silence, and he thinks he’s going to be sick again.

“We need to get you out of this apartment,” the underboss mumbles wearily, avoiding looking back at the mess Hamilton is making through strained coughs and retches. “Come on. Washington needs to see you.”

Hamilton will go down fighting. He doesn’t know what connection these two events have, if any at all, but he’s not falling for any bullshit. Not anymore. His eyes harden when Greene goes off to inspect the damage, leaving him to his own devices for the time being.

* * *

 

Washington arrives at his office in less than five minutes, once he hangs up on Nat. It’s huge and modern and sleek, much like the rest of Washington’s aesthetic. He enjoys designer products and handstitched leather seats and submariner Rolexes. Every thread and seam in his suits are fitted to perfection. George Washington has a reputation for his modest profligacy. His building is no exception. Modeled by Rochambeau, the huge office is stacked twenty-one floors high, with huge black windows that reflect the city lights brilliantly. Washington’s office, alone, had been expertly placed in the almost center of the building of the 16th floor, facing the East. Like most of Rochambeau’s architectures, the massive building is curved to a wide half circle. The building’s name is simple. _Washington Corporation_. It’s called _The Executive Building_ out of fun, but it is the most intricate design Rochambeau has ever done. Plus, it has a central heating unit. The office was a gift between friends, and Washington adores it, but he hates to be summoned on his days off.

Today, he had taken a day off.

Heading into the lobby, he isn’t greeted with as many people as he usually expects, because most of his men are out of town. But there are still capos and soldiers buzzing about, some playing pool, others watching the news. He breezes up to his office, where he’s greeted by his secretary, going,

“He said it was important, sir. Can I get you anything?”

“Hot tea.” And with that, he walks into his office room, met by none other than Jean Rochambeau, admiring the city’s view from the giant window behind Washington’s desk.

“You told me to give you the best view,” the architect says fondly. His hands are clasped behind his back, and he’s probably reminiscing.

Washington approaches him slowly, and joins him at the window. “Time flies.” God, not _small talk_. “What can I do for you, Jean?”

The nobleman grins shyly and brushes his hair back. “Let’s not get into that too quickly. I’ve heard Trenton’s going down in flames.”

Washington almost can’t fake his smile. He has Nat bringing Alexander in about ten or fifteen minutes, and he needs time to get this meeting over with and _still_ have time to regroup before Alex does _actually_ show up. He grits his teeth. “Trenton’s going. And I hate to rush you, Jean, but why’d you call me here so urgently?” He arranges things on his desk neatly, and quietly accepts the mug of tea his secretary brings him, before adding, “We shouldn’t glaze over it. It sounded pretty serious over the phone.” He’s wondering what could have been so serious that they had to discuss it, face to face. And why it couldn’t have just been a simple email or phone call. Don’t call George Washington from an apparent day off back to his job for small talk. “We should talk about it. Like, now.”

Rochambeau laughs heartily, and continues moving about Washington’s office, admiring knickknacks and books. “You never were a talker, George. Alright, I’ll appease you. I had a proposal.”

“Go on,” Washington sits back at his desk and sips his tea. He follows the Frenchman with his eyes, but listens, more than anything.

“You’re looking for someone to get into the White House when JWA starts to seep into politics, right?” Rochambeau’s eyes are gleaming. “You’re already neck-deep in the economy. You have a hand in the industry. When you start controlling politics, and the military, I was thinking—well, we’ve worked together for so long. You get me into the White House, I’ll carry out your orders until my death day.”

Washington’s almost surprised. Almost. He hadn’t really considered putting Rochambeau on the ticket, but it isn’t a half bad idea. Jean is charming and pleasant. He’s a genuine guy, who knows politics. Easy going, laid back. They could sell it. Plus, for as long as they’ve known each other, there’s no doubt in his mind that Rochambeau wouldn’t be completely loyal to JWA, or to Washington, himself. “You want to be President of the United States?”

Rochambeau grins again. “You’d have the leader of the free world on your side, George Washington. And he’d have been your friend for almost twenty years.”

“Say no more,” Washington replies warmly. Both senators and representatives are members of the Syndicate and the Jeffersons, already. Washingtons had begun controlling politics a while back. But getting his men, getting _Rochambeau_ , into the Oval Office—well, that’s a big step up the food chain. “I’ll certainly discuss it with my co-bosses.”

Awkwardly, Rochambeau nods, and then turns to leave. But he stops himself, and asks, “Do you think I could win?”

“The presidency?” And Washington thinks. Sure. It’s possible. “I don’t see why not.” Rochambeau is not a young man. In fact, he’s seven years older than Washington. Despite this, there’s something youthful about him, and the way his baby blue eyes sparkle. Something promising, and optimistic. It almost makes Washington smile. Almost. Jean could definitely win, but he won’t jinx anything, because that would mean sudden death. Out of Rochambeau’s earshot, he raps the black, wooden bookshelf next to him just in case.

Washington isn’t widely superstitious, but with the way things have been conducting themselves in his life lately, he figures it may be necessary to consider such trivial things as jinxing. He sighs. Look at what he’s been reduced to. A pathetic old man in an executive office, overthinking bad luck and awaiting his breakup, which will be arriving very soon. He needs a drink. With a half glance at the hot cup of tea, he almost considers calling in his secretary for something stronger. He might need something to take the edge off of what’s about to happen, but goddamnit, Alex has been waiting long enough.

He spins around in his chair, staring out to the horizon. Somewhere out there, his men are being faced with a very high chance of dying. He’s almost ashamed to think, in the back of his mind, that this is what he’s wanted. Since he could remember, being groomed for this seat—the most powerful seat in New York, in America, in the _world_!—he’d wanted absolute domination. Power is important. He doesn’t expect Alex to understand the complexity. But now that he’s achieving it, he isn’t sure why he can’t feel joy. Or pleasure.

He’d been trained as an _infant_ to take over the Syndicate throne! He’d been prepared and primped for it—taught how to manage money, lead men, compartmentalize, detach, focus. He’d been taught Mandarin and the history of the organization, and among all things, he’d been taught the legitimate history of the United States. He’d been trained in ways that completely altered his way of thinking forever—not to blink when a gun goes off, show no fear when Satan is before him, and whatever he does, do _not_ fall in love. It was too simple, and up until this point, it was second nature. But Alexander Hamilton just _had_ to come along and make him feel shit. Make him _human_ again.

Washington is nose to nose with a dilemma, and at this point, he’s just going to have to allow things to play themselves out. Uncle Ben was probably right—he calculates too much. Alex acts on impulse and follows his heart and doesn’t give a shit about anything other than the Now. Washington grew up, focused on the future, but his future revolved around the past. Even now, as he sits, fumbling with his tie, he’s dwelling too much on the past. He groans. Now he’s just going in circles. What is he supposed to do, then? Ask for more advice? He checks the time. Usually he would go to Lafayette with these things, but the capo is out of town, and truthfully, Washington is a bit reluctant to speak to him casually, at the moment. Lafayette’s a good guy. He just takes his job a bit too seriously. John’s probably just leaving the airport, and is on his way downtown. His heartrate picks up at just the thought.

His laptop chimes with an email from Thomas, _RE: JWA Expansion_. There isn’t enough liquor in the world to get Washington relaxed, at this point. Fuck. _JWA_. The Jeffersons had called it a “restoration,” but Washington would rather call it a “resurrection.” They’re avenging some iron-clad, hellraising scheme to destroy the world. Calling it a “restoration” makes it sound like it rightfully belongs here. Calling it a “resurrection” makes it seem as though a beast had been slain and has risen from the dead to seek its revenge.

And maybe that’s all this is. 

A beast from the dead, seeking revenge.

There’s a double knock at the door, and he jumps slightly. He’s still facing the window, but he knows what’s coming. “Send them in.”

“Yes, sir.”

The door clicks shut again, and he’s left in silence for a few seconds more, before…

“ _George fucking Washington_ …” it’s a faint roar in the hallway, all the way back from the elevator. He sighs. Good lord, what has he done now? “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kick your fucking ass all the way to Virginia and back?” Alex screams, stomping into his office.

Washington hasn’t turned around yet, and he’s probably thinking the best way to break the news about being a mob boss wouldn’t include him spinning around in his giant chair, like the greedy CEOs do in the movies. He does it anyway. “Alexander.”

Alex’s eyes are bright and wild. He’s furious, and he looks like he’s getting sick again. “You sent your fucking _henchman_ to come pick me up?”

With an odd glance at Nat, Washington rises from his desk and walks around to face Alex. “What on earth has gotten into you?”

“Me?” Alex roars, jabbing a finger into Washington’s chest.

“Hey,” Nat speaks, from the door. “Chill the fuck out.”

“Shut the fuck up, _Greene_ ,” Alex spits, casting a deadly glare over his shoulder to him. He looks back to Washington, who is dumbfounded. “When were you going to tell me you were in the fucking mafia?”

Oh shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

Washington’s composure doesn’t change. He keeps a straight face, but he lifts an eyebrow. Calmly, he says, “I was going to. Uh,” he pauses, and looks back to Greene, who shrugs. “That’s why I invited you here.”

Alex, who hasn’t let his guard down since he kicked that door down, slumps his shoulders and frowns. “What is this? Your HQ, or something?”

“No, this is my office. Uh, where the magic happens.”  He spreads his palms in a ‘ _you understand_ ’ gesture, and motions around him. “I was going to give you a tour, but… I see you’ve already…” and with a sharp glance at Nat, he says, “found out.”

Defeated, Alex says, “Fuck you, George.” Then, he looks around, too. “Nice.”

“And, actually, I’m not just _in_ it.”

“What, are you the boss of it, or some shit?” Alex growls. He can detect the sarcasm, but unfortunately, he’s right. How the hell did he even find out? All Washington can do is nod awkwardly. Alex is staring at Washington with hard, unreadable eyes. He doesn’t even look hurt, he just looks fucking _pissed_. However, he looks like he’s the calm level of pissed, the most dangerous level of pissed, where he’s going to erupt at any moment. He’s just calculating where and how to strike Washington’s jaw and which river to toss his dead body into. “Are you?”

The sun is setting, and Washington needs to respond to that email. If Alex is going to break his face and break up with him, he needs to hurry up and get it over with. He looks down at the man he’s grown so much with in such a short span of time and asks, “Yes. So, now what?”

Alex doesn’t have an answer. He just says, “I was a fool for thinking you were perfect, George.”

He chuckles with mild agreement. “I get that a lot.”

It’s silent, and he gestures for Nat to leave them be. His underboss and longtime friend reluctantly steps out of the room, and they’re alone. Washington’s mind in racing. What’s he supposed to say now? Apologize? Reassure him? Explain himself? Kick him out? This is the reason he was hesitant to get involved with Alexander, but in the beginning he couldn’t resist the boy. Anything up to this point is Washington’s fault, and he assumes full responsibility. He’s too busy in his head, he doesn’t realize Alex reaching to touch his face, and out of shock, he jumps.

Alex’s eyes are wet with tears, but they’re focused and solid. It feels uncomfortable to be locked under his scrutiny like this. All of Alexander’s attention has fallen onto him, and being the object of Alex’s observation melts him like a candle in the face of an open fire. “I wanna hear you say it.”

Realizing his cue, Washington finds his voice. “I’m the boss of the Washington Syndicate.” His baritone voice rattles the still air. Rattles the air from Alex’s lungs.

“Not that.”

He stares at the boy in confusion.

“Tell me you love me, George.”

This is hardly the right moment for that. Shouldn’t Alex be throwing a shit fit, or castrating Washington? He stares at the boy in shock, but his jaw is slack in disbelief. Alex’s deep brown eyes are reflecting the orange sky over Washington’s shoulder, where the sun is slipping out of reach behind the horizon. They’re glimmering faintly in the light and everything is in slow motion for the moment, but his concentration is broken with,

“You’re not going to say it?” Alex asks thoughtfully, hardly looking surprised. “Thought so.”

“Alex,” Washington chokes out. “wait,”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Alex asks, cutting off Washington’s whirlwind of thoughts.

He finds his scattered thoughts again, and avoids Alexander’s hypnotic eyes for the sake of his own being. “It wasn’t the right time. It would have jeopardized everything. Your life would have been in danger, Alexander.”

“Wasn’t it, already?” Alex snaps. “When you put that contract on me?”

He swallows. Jesus fucking Christ. How does he know any of this? He can’t explain that he _didn’t_ know he was hunting Alex, and he can’t explain that as soon as he _did_ realize who he was targeting, he withdrew that order altogether. “That wasn’t…”

“Look me in the eye. You waited this long,” the boy glares. “And I’m just as big of an idiot as you are, because I still want you.”

He almost chokes on his spit. “What?” he almost sounds desperate. His eyes fly back to meet Alex’s, whose eyelashes flutter in surprise. “You aren’t breaking up with me?” He cringes as he says it—he’s been reduced to a puddle of tears by Alexander Hamilton, and he’ll be damned if he’s just going to walk out of his life.

“Shut up and let me finish.”

Washington’s jaw clicks shut.

“You have no clue what you’ve put me through. Sending Lafayette after me like that? Watching a little girl’s father murdered in cold blood? Killing a man I regarded as _my_ father?—god, I get tired of repeating this series of events—And now I had to find out Hercules has always been in the Syndicate, too?” (Washington vaguely recalls that name from earlier. He’s bad with names.) “Fuck you, George, you don’t get to speak. Not only has my blood pressure been compromised because of you…” his voice breaks, but he won’t cry in front of Washington. Not again. “But if I have a heart attack, that’s on _your_ conscience. I mean, how can you sit there with someone crying in your arms because their life sucks— _and you’re the whole reason their life sucks_? But they don’t know that, because they _trust_ you? Everything was fine before you killed Capet! Everything was fine before I met you! You stupid, fucking asshole!” and that does it, because he starts sobbing, and Washington is right there to hold him. “Get the fuck off of me!” the boy cries, attempting to shove Washington back, but he can’t. He’s too big. Washington just holds him tighter, until the boy is shaking in his arms, sobbing so much that it hurts Washington’s chest. Finally, Alex gives in, and his hands are grabbing for Washington’s back, holding him tight.

He sighs, and steadily rocks Alex in his arms, brushing his hair out of his face. He’s trying to find the words, but all he can feel in his heart is remorse. “I’m sorry.” And he is.

Alex doesn’t respond right away, because he begins laughing, wiping his eyes with the heel of his palm, and stares out of the window in silence. “I know you are. I’ve never seen you so mortified.”

To be fair, Washington has probably never been this shameful in his life—not even when his father walked in on him and that baker boy from 12th street. He thinks it’s best that he doesn’t speak, considering he doesn’t know what Alex is thinking.

“Promise me one thing,” the boy’s voice is soft.

“Hm?”

“Whatever the fuck you’re doing behind closed doors, George Washington, you involve me next time.”

His heart is thudding in his chest. It’s just one request, but honestly, he can’t drag Alexander into this mess. He’s safer on the outside. But he knows he won’t take no for an answer. He nods slightly, unblinking as his mind works. “Alright.” They can do it. “How about we start now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why'd the chicken cross the road?  
> to get to the smol bean's house. 
> 
> knock knock.   
> "who's there?"  
> the chicken 
> 
> happy Sunday!


	32. Caroline

Gunfire ricochets like a drumroll and goddamnit, Hercules’ pulse is thudding in his ears. His left foot fell asleep, but apparently their backup is arriving soon. That should go smoothly, he thinks. He’s expecting some miracle or divine providence to interfere but then he remembers he’s only a part-time Christian and resolves his anxiety by suppressing that feeling altogether. He wonders where Laurens is right now, and when he’ll be getting here. Hercules has been out here since 10am but now it’s past lunch time and he’s starving. He’d like to go home.

“ _D’accord_ ,” Lafayette begins, turning to his esteemed soldier. “ _Jean_ has just sent four capos and their men up to the north and three capos south. He will be arriving here, on our side, last.”

Hercules nods. “Alright. Is there a time frame for all of this?”

“Twenty minutes to go around on the I-95,” Lafayette recites, courtesy of Lauren’s description provided. “It will be soon, _Hercule._ Do not worry.”

He isn’t really worried, he’s just cold, hungry, dirty, and laying on his stomach behind a car. He’s been out here for almost three hours, and if he hears another dead body hit the pavement, he’s going to be sick. He thinks it’s odd that there are no helicopters here yet and this whole ordeal wasn’t shut down when it got started. The few city cops that were here in the beginning now lay dead behind their cruisers and the other ones that showed up are now hostages for Trenton’s mob. All the Syndicate has to do is hold out long enough for the reinforcements to arrive. Trenton has a limited number of soldiers involved, whereas recently, the population of JWA has exponentially rose and they can draw upon an almost infinite number of resources. With their taking over of cities and states, JWA’s numbers have nearly quadrupled in size.

“ _Hercule_.”

“Yea?”

“Focus.”

“Yea.”

* * *

 

They’re sitting across from each other, Hamilton watching George’s posture, and George watching Hamilton’s body language. The clock is ticking. The faintest movement can be heard outside of George’s office door, where Greene is shuffling around uncomfortably. Hamilton can see his anxious shadow pacing back and forth, beneath the door. George probably figures that Greene’s eavesdropping on their conversation is a bit rude, so he calls him in.

For the first time, Hamilton witnesses him in action. His voice is solid. It carries when he orders, “Go find out what’s going on in Trenton. I want you to watch the news, contact Laurens, Lafayette, and Howe. I want a full, detailed report on the goings-on and a body count, if tangible. I want a dossier on my desk by sunset.”

And with that, Greene leaves, and Hamilton sits in a bit of shock, confusion, and intrigue. He’s right about Lafayette being in Trenton and in the Syndicate. He’s right about Laurens, too, but that was a given. A bit of resentment overcomes him when he realizes that means Hercules is there, too. But that means he knew the Syndicate was in Trenton, to begin with. He gives himself props for his intuition. He isn’t crazy, after all. But what are they doing in Trenton? He turns to George. “Why is the Syndicate in New Jersey?”

George’s eyes are stern, but he doesn’t answer. He observes Hamilton coolly, and says, “If I’m going to answer that, I have to give you the history of our dynasty, first.”

“ _Or_ , you could just answer my question.”

“ _Or_ , I could start from the beginning. It would make much more sense that way, trust me.”

“Weren’t you responsible for the Depression?” Hamilton asks, vaguely recalling Burr’s spiel when they first met.

George chuckles, almost bashfully, and asks, “Why don’t we go out, and I’ll explain it to you?”

“ _Or_ , you could tell me right here.”

“ _Or,_ we could use some fresh air,” George responds casually. “Besides, I’m hungry.” And that’s that. Soon they wind up in a burger drive-thru, both having spent a total of over forty dollars. Everything on the menu looked good, and Hamilton’s high metabolism isn’t always his friend. They sit in the parking lot of the mall, eating contently, taking in their surroundings behind tinted windows. George has apparently forgotten why they’re here.

“Look at that guy’s sunglasses. Are those Armani?”

“George.” Hamilton’s voice is firm. “The Syndicate?”

“Oh, right,” the man laughs, covering his mouth with a napkin. “Alright. Just a disclaimer. I am _not_ supposed to be relaying any of this to you. But I’m doing so on my own accord. Because I trust you. If you decide to go selling this story to the press, consequences would be met before your story ever reached the surface. Got it?”

Hamilton nods, but almost doesn’t consider it to be a privilege to have George open up so much about a secret organization… He shudders.

“You know your American history?”

“I think so.”

“Well, it’s time to rethink it. December 6th, 1606. The Godspeed began its sail from England to North America. Unlike the Susan Constant and the Discovery, the Godspeed was a privately funded ship, joint-owned by two families investing half of their fortunes into the New World. It was called the Godspeed Institution. It was their boat, with their men on that ship, with their own objectives. There was a man named David Long. He was the son of a humble countryman who believed he was born to do great things. I’ve heard he was a nasty young man. Anyway, he signed up to sail for the Godspeed.”

“Okay…” Hamilton isn’t sure he’s following.

“The deal was whatever Long’s men found, it belonged to the Godspeed’s owners. Gold, spices, land, jewels, animals. That was the deal that was made with the king, and that was the deal that was kept. As long as their fortunes represented King James, they were set. So they arrived off the coast of the Chesapeake Bay in 1607, and found a nice little area and called it Jamestown. So, that land was claimed for the king, but it was owned by the Godspeed Institution.”

Hamilton nods to encourage him to go on.

“December 1st, 1642. In England, two men on opposing sides of the English Civil War meet for the first time in thirty-five years. They are enemies by virtue of their position and their views of the king. One family thought it was ridiculous to be represented by a king when they had a whole colony across the ocean and argued to be there, while the other thought the king was their best ally and means of power. Neither of them were wrong. It’s obvious that they were fond of each other, still. They had a history. They funded the Godspeed together. And now this new country was being built off of their dreams, right?”

“Right,”

George is silent for a moment. “So, anyway, those two men died a few months later. They were old. Much too old to be alive at that point. Never got to see the English Civil War end, which occurred nine years after their deaths. But the loyalists—the cavaliers—lost. The government developed an actual parliament system, and the king was no longer directly responsible for the Institution’s financial support. That all went through England’s new form of congress. The Godspeed heirs continued to exist in silence. Blah, blah, blah.”

Hamilton chuckles.

“Years and years of this, the Parliament hated Godspeed for accumulating most of the wealth without actually having any _power_. Sure, the king could rule, but the people were then in charge and threatened to strip both families of their wealth. The Godspeed Institution was _supposed_ to remain loyal to the crown, but they decided to leave England to exist in the very land they had claimed nearly sixty years prior. Plus, they were fleeing persecution. They both moved to Virginia and lived in luxury. They had their own devices, land, and rule. Very slowly, the colony’s relationship with Great Britain had become strained because of this, and the French  & Indian War was a catalyst for the future.”

“The Revolutionary War, right?” Hamilton asks.

“Bingo. Great Britain decided to slowly drain this new colony of its rights, wealth, and land as a way to get back at the defenseless Institution, without outwardly snatching back literally everything. It was an ingenious scheme, but would obviously be combated in the near future. Fast forward to the Revolutionary War, and the entire colony was up in arms. Literally. The Godspeed Institution famously cut ties with the British and gained control of their land by leading the men to freedom. You know that whole story. The two men who were arguably most important in the war were actually the heirs to this secret organization and were solely responsible for the fate of their country.”

Hamilton nods, eyebrows creasing. “So what happened?”

“Well, they decided it was time to fulfill their dreams. Two men with the surnames of Washington and Jefferson (who’d been stars in the theatre of the Revolutionary War) ultimately pooled their fortunes and agreed to a perpetual bond. They felt it was a new era. A new goal. July 4th isn’t about the Declaration of Independence, it’s about the official establishment of the new organization. They weren’t just scouting land and claiming it, they were then erecting a civilization that would shake the earth for centuries. The families were supposed to work together in harmony to secure their union. Which they did, fairly well. The legislature, judiciary, and executive positions that were created was just for show. Everything you’ve learned was just the tip of the massive iceberg. Beneath those waters, the entirety of what America was built from has remained in the blind spot since its founding.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Imagine the U.S. Government as this sort of _mask_ of the world of politics, but this organization was actually the face. Right? I’m not a metaphor guy, but it’s basically a less creepy, less suspicious mask covering up this ugly, scarred, twisted demonic legacy that does all of the work. So I suppose when people criticize the U.S. Government for being shady, they have a reason to. People can always feel when someone’s doing dirt.”

Hamilton frowns, and keep his eyes hard on George. “So what about the Civil War?”

“What about it?” George asks.

“Wasn’t it…? How’d that get handled?”

“That’s tough to answer,” George responds, and eats a French fry. “There were a few of those that never reached the surface level. The one you’re thinking of was the most famous one, where Lee and Grant famously led their armies, right?” He chuckles. “Everyone learns that one. What you don’t know—and what even the most expert historian can’t tell you—is about the world of the other ones that plagued American politics since the 19th century.”

“You’ll have to tell me about those later. But how’s the Syndicate responsible for any of that?”

“You’re jumping,” Washington responds idly. “First of all, the _Washington Syndicate_ was born out of a schism with the Jefferson family. That happened in the 20 th century. At first, they were just one unit. One family, really, made up of two separate bloodlines. Before all that, it was called the Washington-Jefferson Association. The Association was the single most brilliant thing any human could come up with. It was perfectly compacted and had nearly doubled the size of its mass in ten years. The Association was powerful, but it wasn’t a corrupt deal.”

“But I heard they caused the Great Depression.”

Washington refrains from asking how he found out, although it isn’t conventional wisdom. Awkwardly, he laughs. “That’s a bit harsh.”

“But it’s true.”

“It is. When World War I began, the Association had a nasty debate about whether the United States would get involved. On the one hand, the Washington bloodline detested foreign affairs, while the Jefferson bloodline thought it would be healthy to get out there and exercise a bit of military muscle and show how great and powerful we had become. In 1914, the compromise was made that if by April 6th, 1917, the war was still going on, the Washington bloodline would approve the contract to send a declaration of war for Congress to approve. That day came, and the war was actually getting worse, so the Washington bloodline reluctantly signed the contract. The Jeffersons were pleased, but when all was said and done, over fifty thousand American soldiers were dead. However, the Jeffersons saw an opportunity to boost the international department. America really hadn’t suffered any losses in the actual land, and so the time following that became known as the Roaring Twenties. It was a special time for the organization.”

Hamilton recalls the heavy 20’s theme in almost anything involving the Syndicate, and he’s taken aback. The swing and jazz music, the speakeasy-esque _Ad Hoc_ , the fucking _mafia_ , for god’s sake. They may as well be reliving their glory days.

“It was our Golden Age,” George continues wistfully. “Our paradise. The economy was glorious, the politics were well-handled, the social world was ideal. It was certainly the dream of what a post-war world should look like. After chaos and death, the air was replaced with triumph and youthfulness. It was all fine and dandy, but the argument between the U.S.’s involvement in the Great War hadn’t really subsided. The Washington bloodline was pretty upset about it, and the Jeffersons pretty much thought they had the advantage, since things turned out alright.”

“So they rubbed it in?”

“Yea, and it was the worst breakup in the 20th century. For starters, it ruined the entire economy. Both domestic and international. Tore it to shreds in a matter of years. You had two men fighting over the entire country’s financial status, as a result of the war. The political theater was wrecked from the ground up. Half the House and Congress went one way, and the other half went the other way. One side was with the Washington bloodline, the other was with the Jefferson’s. The social world—god, don’t get me started. The citizens were the undeserving victims of this catastrophic divorce. ‘The stock market crashed,’ was what reporters were given. The stats were thrown out there, and it’s been said that 1929 was the final wedge that legitimately killed the last streak of bonds the two families would ever share again. Which was true.”

“But what about World War II?”

“World War II always gets the credit of pulling America out of the Depression, but really, the last two heirs had died a few months prior and the new ones were less combative. They were more determined to find a solution, rather than destroy a country they had broken their backs to build. So in 1939, they were more concerned with reconstruction, as opposed to fighting in the Second World War.”

Hamilton’s eyes wander as George talks. He’s putting it all together in his head, and it sounds too surreal. But he’s curious. “And?”

“The new argument was about the United States’ vulnerability. The Jefferson bloodline argued that by entering the last World War, America had left an impression, and paranoid ‘enemies’ would try to take us out before we got involved. The Washington bloodline maintained that we were too weak to go to war, and by entering, we would _make_ ourselves targets. The Jeffersons are always willing to go to war,” George grumbles bitterly. “And yet, their forefather hadn’t fought in a single one during the Revolution.”

Hamilton, very carefully, asks, “Who’s the Jefferson boss now?”

“We aren’t there yet. A few years later, Pearl Harbor was bombed and the Jeffersons were furious with the Washington bloodline. They argued that if we had declared war sooner, we’d have been better prepared. Which, no one knows for sure. But anyway, we entered the war shortly thereafter. So, toward the end of the war, the Association had constructed a major project—the atom bomb. The Manhattan Project, it was called, constructed in the heart of the Association headquarters.” George thinks for a moment. “The question was a big one: do we use it, or not? Do we bomb Japan or not? In history, it always goes down as question of morals or revenge. But in this case, it was a statement—one made by the Jeffersons—that if the country relied solely on the Washington bloodline’s pacifist nature, it would get nowhere. So, the Jeffersons made the call, and Hiroshima and Nagasaki were detonated. It was also for show, as everything with the Jeffersons always is. It was probably the only thing that kept the country together.”

Hamilton frowns. “You’re making this up.”

“I swear I’m not,” George replies critically. “You don’t know the half of it. I’d end up telling you things you shouldn’t know.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“I’ve never lied to you, Alex,” George responds. “You wanted to know, so now I’m telling you.”

“So a _mob_ founded America?”

“No. Not a mob. Not the _mafia_.” George grimaces at the word. “It has been degraded to that, over time. When the two parties began battling for dominance, and the balance was lost, they were unable to regain it. When they separated, they were just lowly criminals. Before, they were kings. And now, we’re just felons dodging cops. What founded this country was a composed, unified, _sophisticated_ company. We’ve been reduced to animals at this point,”

Hamilton’s eyebrows knot in thought. “And you’re…? The heir?”

“I am. And to answer your question, the Jefferson’s heir’s name is Thomas.”

“Thomas Jefferson? And George Washington?”

George nods solemnly. “And our mission now is to resurrect that Association. That’s what we’ve been doing.”

Now he’s following. “How do you plan on doing that?”

George gives Hamilton a sharp look, but simply eats his burger in silence. Doesn’t look like he’ll be sharing that any time soon.

He checks the time. “Is that why you’re in Trenton and Hartford and Annapolis?” Hamilton prompts. “Taking over the country again with Thomas?”

George chuckles, and wipes his mouth with a brown napkin. “I’d offer you a position on my staff, but I—”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“I can be much more than a lap-warmer, George,” Hamilton says firmly. He thinks it’s a bit dumb that this whole If You Can’t Beat ‘Em, Join ‘Em philosophy is a bit overused, but therein lies the dilemma. He won’t idly stand around when he could be doing _something_. And if the law enforcement won’t take him, then dammit, he’ll go to someone who will.

“You’re sure?” George asks hesitantly. “This isn’t just something you can back out of at the first sign of trouble, Alex.”

“Oh, please,” the boy scoffs. “My middle name is Trouble.”

“For some reason, I believe you,” George mutters. “Look, why don’t you take some time to chew on it? It’s way easier said than done. I want you to be absolutely sure it’s something you want to do.”

Hamilton nods, and sits back against the seat. He’ll definitely think about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to begin writing commissions!  
> I’m not sure if they’re really even a thing (I haven’t checked) but now they are! Below, I will provide samples, what I’m willing to write, and the prices!
> 
> Samples:  
> “I could hear the way her words were slathered with rose gold curlicues. The elegiac golds and greens of the streetlamps glistened on her locks, pushing luminescent Caravaggio waves of tangled curls. Dreamy, star-gazing eyes fluttered with glazed content, ripe with ease and composed competence. A practice.”
> 
> “He focuses on the air on his skin, the beating sun on his left foot, where the shade has receded with the afternoon sun. He listens to Benny from the opposite side of the wall, he tries to focus on the dragonflies hovering over the lilies, the birds twittering over his head, the roughness of the trunk against his bare back, the twitch of his muscles on the roots. He grimaces when he feels the pain he’d been trying to ignore.”
> 
> “‘Touching yourself?’ George asks from the line. ‘Like a good boy?’  
> ‘Yes, sir,’ he whispers, letting his eyes flutter shut. He fills out a little more as he continues to tease himself at George’s taunting tone.  
> There’s a silky chuckle that crackles through the phone and Alexander’s knees are weak. He keeps his strokes light, draws them out as he traces his man’s solid frame in his mind, those dark abs and his tight chest. God, those pecs. He winces a moan, and he hears George hum his approval on the other end.”
> 
> " One of the most famous results of the feminist movement was a conference called Seneca Falls (Document I), held by Elizabeth Cady Stanton, along with Susan B Anthony (who fought for women’s suffrage), and Lucretia Mott. They ended up drafting a document heavily modeling the Declaration of Independence, but it was instead called, Declaration of Sentiments and Resolutions, which listed women’s calls for equality. As shown in Document C, it is often seen that women’s struggles for equality in a patriarchy-dominated world was intertwined with Blacks’ struggle for liberty in a Free Country." (this was a DBQ I did lol)
> 
> “There’s no logic in oppressing the backbone of the workforce, there’s no logic in suppressing the industry that brings you the very wealth that keeps you comfortable enough to eat lamb chops every evening,” he says, rising to his feet.  
> “I’m more of a sirloin kind of guy, myself, actually,” I say.  
> He frowns. “Good night, Mister Smith. I hope you find that I am not at all apologetic when I tell you that there will be a revolution. And the proletariat people will seek an uprising. And when they do, you’d better take your sirloin and run. Because the proletarians have nothing to lose but their chains. We have a world to win.” (Karl Marx vs Adam Smith. They had a dinner date)
> 
> "...a fluid statuesque of beautiful Mary of Magdalene with thick, luscious ringlets framing her soft, round face. Her smile is only faint, mystifying, and dazzling. Her long lashes are decorating her closed eyes, delicately brushing over the apples of her cheeks. Her right hand is laid gently over her heart, her left hand still a prisoner to the rough marble enveloping her white, smoothed skin."
> 
> What I’m willing to write:  
> -Fanfictions (short ones or long ones)—fandoms are negotiable!  
> -OC narratives  
> -NSFW (negotiable)  
> -AUs 
> 
> Pricing!  
> Based on what you ask me to write and how many words it is will determine what the total comes out to. **Every thousand words will cost $10 more! So, here are the starting prices for simply a thousand words:  
> -Fanfiction: $5  
> -OCs: $10  
> -NSFW: $15  
> -AUs (depending on how complex it is): $10
> 
> example: a three thousand word fanfic would cost $25 ($5+$10+$10)  
> example: a thousand word NSFW would cost $15 (the first thousand words are a given, thus there wouldn't be an extra fee)  
> example: a four thousand OC narrative would cost $40 ($10+$10+$10+$10)
> 
> Contact  
> Tumblr, lowlights-highlights.tumblr.com OR kingthezeke.tumblr.com  
> Twitter, kingthezeke  
> Email, romaasisgay@gmail.com
> 
> You can always contact me if you’re curious and just want more information! I’ll be setting up a Paypal to work on transactions! **prices are flexible! xox
> 
> ANNOUNCEMENTS: 
> 
> The next upload will most likely be on 1 January, just bc of the holiday season and stuff I've got going on in my personal life. I'll try to upload before then, but there are no promises. Anyway, Happy Holidays & have a safe break!


	33. Speeding

“Le’s shut this shit down,” Laurens announces to his soldiers, upon arrival in Trenton. He’s followed instruction and assigned capos and soldiers to certain positions surrounding the stand-off. With confidence, the soldiers easily enter the city. Moving in with fire, the Trenton mobs are made an example of--and the police never show up.

Lafayette, seeing Laurens across the way, grins brightly, and waves to him. They now outnumber Trenton 12 to 1 and Lafayette has never been more pleased. Gunfire rains down like hell and the unmistakable sound of bodies being hit has never sounded more satisfying to Lafayette’s keen ears.

“What began in the disaster eventually triumphed!” he excitedly informs Hercules. “I embraced many men in my life, Hercules. And now, this is one of those moments.” His arms fly open--still gripping his M16--inviting Hercules in.

“Save it for Laurens, lover boy,” Hercules grumbles, and immediately following his statement, Laurens pops up over the car and beams at them.

“Yo, Marq!” He glances down at Hercules and adds, “Herc the Murk, wassup, buddy?”

“Jean! Oh, I could kiss you!” Lafayette cries, throwing his arms around Lauren’s neck and pulling him into a hug.

Hercules stiffly arises from the gravel and dusts himself off. His joints crack and he rolls his neck, relieving some of the strain and stiffness. Oh, he’ll be sore tomorrow. He takes a long look at the rifle in his hand. What on God’s green earth is he doing here? He wonders how many men he’s killed, but he won’t allow for his thoughts to become this grim. That can wait.

“Hate to be a party pooper,” Laurens recalls, “But Wash tol’ me to exterminate a certain pest.”

“A pest?” Lafayette inquires, furrowing his brows.

“A rat. Said he was wif’ you,” he continues, cocking his gun and looking around.

“Rat?” Hercules asks. “We have a rat in our troops?”

“Somebody tipped Trenton off--Otherwise how did they survive so long?” Laurens demands. Lafayette exchange glances as if they have not considered this before. Laurens grins at his own cleverness. “Wash said some guy gave him ideas for our invasion over the phone. I say tha’s prolly who the rat is. Point that sucka out, Marq, so I can light him up. Give ‘im a taste a’ my baby, Tokyo Blue.” He pats his M16 with affection.

“It was me that gave the General the idea to have you all split up on your way over here,” Hercules admits. “But I’m not a fucking rat.”

Laurens gives him a strange look. “Damn right, you ain’t a fuckin’ rat, Herc.” He turns to Lafayette. “Maybe it was just dumb luck.”

“We should look at that,” Lafayette mutters, hoisting his machine gun over his shoulder with his good hand and sighing, “ _Mais nous allons d'abord_.”

“Which reminds me, we got four cargo trucks an’a coach bus on their way to pick us up and take us back to New York,” Laurens says, as if he’s just remembered. “They should be here any minute now. Pacon’s men’re gonna take care of those bodies,” he mutters as he gestures to a few dead bodies lying around. “Our casualties are gonna be taken back up to the harbor by boat.” He lights a cigarette and offers Lafayette a drag, who takes it, gratefully, and to Hercules, who declines.

“Now we just go back to fucking New York, like none of this ever happened?” Hercules asks gruffly. “We’re gonna watch Eddie and Limbo stuff dead bodies into intermodal containers and be on our merry way?”

“That’s the plan, soldier,” Laurens chirps, cigarette between his teeth. “But don’t feel bad. The best of us are still alive.”

 

* * *

 

The drive back to the office is one is in silence for the most part. Amid their discussion, Washington’s phone had chimed with a text message from Thomas: _Trenton is down! I’m bringing the boys home xox._ Which means this day is over. He could not be too enthusiastic, with Alex sitting right next to him. But goddamn, that’s a relief.

“Oh,” Alex says quietly. “There’s something I forgot to mention.”

“I’m listening,” Washington hums. He tries to make things less awkward by playing it off, but as the old saying goes, things are only awkward if one makes them awkward.

“Two guys broke into your house and ransacked it while I was there,” he says, almost sheepishly.

“What?” Washington demands, bewildered. He steals a few quick glances at Alex, trying to keep his attention on the road, as well. “What the hell, are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Alex says simply. “But this can’t be good for my blood pressure.”

“When did it happen?”

“Right before Mr. Greene showed up to get me to bring me back to your office.”

“What happened?”

“Two guys tore the place to pieces. They were looking for something--papers, I think? A safe. One guy was British,” Alex muses. “I forgot their names even though I was repeating them over and over in my head the entire time they were in the apartment.”

“I’ll call Nat and have him sort it out,” Washington says darkly. “And you’re sure you’re not hurt?”

“Positive,” the boy responds. But it lacks his usual enthusiasm--that perk he always had with Washington. It’s dull now. It makes Washington regret everything he’s ever done wrong.

“Um, did you already take your blood pressure medication?”

“It’s at the house.”

“Was Rosita alright?”

“She took the dogs out before I got back.” He pauses. “One of them said something about her leaving a window open.” He thinks for a moment. “That could have been a coincidence or on purpose,”

Washington says flatly, “I’ll have a talk with her.”

“Imagine if your dogs were there. Woulda fucked those guys up.”

“You make a convincing argument,” Washington says absently. He reflects on what Alex said. “I don’t own a safe.”

“They mentioned a safe,” Alex shrugs. “The one guy said they were looking for papers.”

“Maybe you misheard them. I don’t own a safe.”

“I guess that’s why they couldn’t find one. And they were wearing ski masks. I think they were armed.”

“I’ll bet they were soldiers. I don’t have any capos with British accents,” Washington mutters.

“Maybe not, but Jefferson might.” It’s a thought. A simple one that makes him feel uneasy.

His jaw tightens. “Remind me to make a list of all the capos that were not deployed today.”

“What’s this about?” Alex prompts. “Some good old fashioned gang beef?”

Washington almost chuckles at the inquiry. “A bit more complex than that,”

“Is it more modernized gang beef?” he leans in, eyes on Washington.

“More like a sibling rivalry.”

“Even better,” he grins.

“I’d say it’s worse,” Washington sighs. “At times like these, I can’t afford to distrust the Jeffersons.”

“Why is that?”

“Alex.” Washington still isn’t too keen on revealing such sensitive information to someone as unpredictable as Alexander.

“What, you don’t trust me?” he scoffs in contempt and Washington closes his eyes at a silent prayer. “I have to prove my loyalty to you now, is that it?”

“It’s not like that, Ale--”

“Forget it,” he snaps, turning to stare out of the window.

Washington resists the urge to sigh. Things will certainly be quite different from now on.

 

* * *

 

Silence. Oh the sweet sound of nothing. Hamilton wonders if this is what all of space sounds like. Bleakness. Numbness.

He sits alone in George’s office while the man discusses something with Mr. Greene elsewhere. Upon looking around, he realizes George has a certain taste in luxury. Not even his office betrays that. The sun has long since set, and he’s staring out at the dark skyline over New York. It’s almost like a dream.

Then, he realizes something else. He’s too tired to argue with George. He doesn’t want to be mad at him but he isn’t ready to let it go just yet. Forgiveness would be letting him off the hook too easily, but Hamilton’s too exhausted to fight with him. In hindsight, things make sense. Others don’t.

George’s laptop chimes and the screen brightens. With ample time, he gets up, walks around the desk, and scans the notification. Inbox 1. RE: JWA Expansion.

He considers it, glances at the door.

George won’t be back in for another minute or so. Not with that break-in distracting him. The highlighted email looks tempting and the subject line is peculiar. But then again, George would know someone read it. That someone would be Hamilton.

He sits down at the desk, scrolls through his threads, observing all the names. He sees a lot of a man named Jefferson and a lot of emails from a Steve Shiffman. Maybe it’s jealousy or maybe it’s curiosity. He types Steve Shiffman into his search bar and is met with the disclaimer that he’s the CEO of Calvin Klein--which would explain George’s extensive collection.

The more he sees the name Jefferson, the more he starts to believe that it’s not a coincidence and George is communicating with the Jefferson gangs. And then he remembers what George said in the car--he can’t afford to distrust them. And the subject of the email mentions “expansion.” And then he remembers his theory that he pitched to Burr.

Well now he can’t fucking resist.

He finds a notepad and a pen, scribbles down the message, and tucks it into his pocket.

He might not be on the force anymore, but he can still do his own detecting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy bill clinton day. I finally summed up the courage to face you guys again
> 
> PS, I'm going to upload tomorrow too and then I'll start back every Sunday.


	34. F(uck) W(ith) Y(ou)

The email said something about a hotel and a parking garage. From what Hamilton can recall, neither of those things George has ever mentioned to him--except why would he? Jefferson said to meet “them” in “the parking garage outside the hotel.” Hamilton has no fucking idea who “they” are or what that may entail but he begins heading there, anyway.

Well, he’s not really sure where he’s going. There’s a shit ton of hotels and parking garages in New York, and Jefferson could be talking about any one of them. He crosses the street, pulling his fleece jacket closed over his chest. He tucks his hands under his armpits as he walks and makes a mental note to invest in a fucking _coat_. Anyway, there was a specific hotel George took him to, though, a while ago. And Hamilton has reason to believe that’s where most of the transactions occur.

Hamilton hails a taxi and begins cooking up a scheme. “To the Soho Grand Hotel, please,” he says to the driver. When the car begins moving, he sits back.

George wasn’t in the hallway when he came out of his office. He and Greene had apparently gone to “take care of business,” which, of course, excluded Hamilton. It made it easier to sneak out of the building without George inquiring where he was going, but it still made him bitter to know there were just some things George would never allow him to know.

Oh well.

That’s why he does shit like this, no matter how awful it may be.

 

* * *

 

 

“So what _did_ you see?” Washington asks, glancing over to Nat.

“I told you, by the time I came in, the, uh, _burglars_ had already fled. The house was already trashed.” He watches traffic for a moment, and his grip loosens on the steering wheel. He retrieves a tub of mint gum from his cup holder and offers a piece to Washington who, from the passenger seat, says,

“No, thank you. But anyway, that means two things. One, they weren’t there to confront me. If they heard you, and thought you were me, they probably would have stuck around if they had business with me. And two, it means someone told them I wasn’t home. Which is how they knew to come at a certain time to avoid me,” he grumbles. The inside of his chest is ice cold. Panic is ensuing in the world of George Washington. Somewhere in his circle, there is a rat. _Someone_ is going behind his back.

“Sir,” Nat begins as the light turns green. He eases onto the accelerator and asks, “What, exactly, did Hamilton say the burglars were after?”

“Papers,” Washington answers curtly, staring out of the window. “In a safe. I don’t have a fucking safe. And I don’t know what papers anyone would be after. Everything is digital these days.”

“Well,” Nat begins slowly. “The only one I saw in there was Hamilton. He was standing in the middle of the mess, looking like a deer in the headlights. He couldn’t even speak at first when I walked in. Plus, I mean, that’s pretty vague and cliche.”

“What’s your point?” Washington asks, but doesn’t look at him.

“You heard him,” he continues. “When he came into your office, he went berserk. Besides, by the time I’d gotten to your place, he’d already known about your, uh, position,”

“ _Okay_ , and what’s your _point_?” Washington asks again, and this time looks at him. Daring him.

Nat seems to consider his words, but his eyes stay on the road. Currently, they’re on their way back to Washington’s place to consider the damage. There was a considerable amount of damage to be considered. “ _Well..._ Is it possible he was the ‘burglar’ and…basically trashed your whole place in the process of looking for something, or throwing a fit, and then I got there and he panicked because he was caught in the act and blamed it on home invasion?”

Washington scoffs with contempt and rolls his eyes, turning away from Nat. “You’re ridiculous,”

“No, listen,” Nat says louder, but in a pleading tone. “I didn’t even see a getaway car,”

“You weren’t looking for one,” Washington reasons. “Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence.”

“Did the detective teach you that?” he scoffs.  
  
  
“I appreciate that you’re looking out for me. My instinct has never failed me, and I don’t feel suspicious of Alexander. In the beginning it was kind of rough, but it’s not like that anymore. I know you’re wary of Alex, but he’s not the enemy here.”  


“Oh really?” Nat challenges. “Then why do I have the feeling he’s inching his way into your circle to sell you to the fucking commissioner to get his job back?”  


“He wouldn’t do that,” Washington says, but he’s slightly uncertain. Nat does make a good point. Why else would he have forgiven him so easily? Asked all those questions or tried to get involved so suddenly? He tenses. “I don’t think I believe that.”  


“He’s so desperate to get his badge back, he’d do anything, Boss. You’ve _seen_ him and what’d he’d do for his job. I’ll bet he’s in your office, _right now_ , snooping through your shit, looking for something to give to Robespierre. Hasn’t he done it before?”

“Alex is not a rat.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“You let me deal with him. You’re not going to convince me that Alex is a rat.”

“I don’t have to _convince you_ if you’d just think about it, Boss! Don’t you see what’s going on? How long have you known him?” the underboss asks, giving Washington a bewildered look. “You’re letting this kid walk all over you because you think you’re in love with him. He pushes you around and curses you out in _your_ office. Sleeps in _your_ bed but gets upset with you for having a particular _job_ . He’s _using_ you.”  


Suddenly, he's embarrassed. Washington feels absolutely ridiculous. Like a dumb, lovesick teenager blinded by unrequited feelings and hormonal rage. “I don’t think that’s what’s going on. Alex might be angry but he wouldn’t deceive me.”  


And with that, Nat pulls over. He stares wearily at Washington, staring at his lap. “ _Think_ about it, Boss. You’re a good guy. But you’re soft. And whose fault do you think I think it is?”

He doesn’t respond for a second. Washington has a strong will. He has strong intuition and follows his gut, but he’d never had any strange gut feelings about Alex. However, he can’t ignore the facts, and the facts are he can’t trust Alex. It’s not Alex’s fault, of course, but it’s all circumstantial. Quietly, very quietly, he asks, “You said you didn’t see a getaway car?”  


“No. And I checked around, while he sat in the living room.  It didn’t look like anyone forced their way in. The doors were locked and there weren’t any broken windows,” Nat continues. “He was the only one in that apartment, Boss,”  


“Turn the car around.”

 

* * *

 

Hamilton wonders what will happen when he shows up on the scene and this Jefferson character realizes he’s filling in for George. He also wonders if this will get him killed. At least he’ll die with dignity--to some extent.  


The buildings pass as meaningless blurs outside his window. He realizes he has tuned most things out, and tunes back in. He catches the faint report from the taxi’s radio,   _The panic in Trenton has dissolved and all the men have mysteriously disappeared. There were no bodies left on the scene, and no trace of weaponry left, except for bullet shell and pro-_  


“Can you change the station?” Hamilton asks suddenly. The thought of all of this is sickening, and if he hears the word _Trenton_ one more time he’s gonna blow a fuse. The cabbie switches the station without a word, and Hamilton figures an overplayed pop song is better than mob politics.  


He checks his phone. No word from George. He sighs. In all honesty, the way he sees it, being a mob boss isn’t the _worst_ thing in the world, as long as George isn’t killing babies. (Luckily George doesn’t seem like the type to kill babies.) Hamilton thinks he was more upset about _how_ he found out--he would have preferred if George had sat him down and told him. But, there’s also a current of dishonesty and shadiness that comes with George’s line of work. Not that he thinks George is necessarily dishonest or shady, but certain things prevent him from being completely open about who he is.  


And then he thinks of Hercules and he’s angry again. How the fuck could he have been so blind? For a moment, he realizes that he’s been so dumb all this time that he deserves all the shit that befalls him. But then he wonders what Hercules’ mission was. Why he’d chosen Hamilton, of all people, to befriend. He texts Hercules a very simple _we need to talk_ and puts his phone away without a single breath.  


He wants tonight to be over with. He just wants to wake up tomorrow with cold nipping at his toes, then to roll over into George’s heavy chest and breathe in his scent. Then to close his eyes again and _listen_. Listen to George’s breathing, to the heater humming, to the traffic below his window. To feel George’s warmth pressed against him, his arms wrapped around his waist. To see the soft light pour in through George’s curtains. To live, for five minutes, in George’s world, without anyone else.  


In fact, Hamilton is sure he sees George differently from most people. Most people see a mob boss and a killer or intimidation. Hamilton sees kindness and tenderness and compassion. He sees George’s rough, calloused hands and his luxe gold rings and thinks _protector_ . Most other people see the same image and think _destroyer_. He isn’t bothered by that. He likes his men tough--(how else would they be able to handle him?)  


Maybe tonight can be the start of something new. He can see George for who he really is and appreciate him. Maybe George can finally breathe without walking on eggshells around Hamilton, and maybe he won’t feel so on edge. Maybe, with nothing so major between them, things will start to head into a better direction. But then Hamilton remembers that with his luck, he’ll end up in prison, and George will likely end up dead because of him.

 

* * *

  


Traffic going in the opposite direction isn’t so brutal.  


Nat and Washington drive back to the office in near-silence, save for Washington’s occasional coughing and Nat’s consistent sniffles. Washington can admire Nat’s cautious nature. Usually, Washington has a better gut instinct about most things, but with Alex it’s like he forgets all that stuff about himself. Which is both relieving and stressful.  


Even if Nat isn’t right about Alex having an ulterior motive (which Washington isn’t sure he truly believes), he _is_ right about one thing: Washington has gone soft. It’s his own fault that he’s let it happen. He wonders how he could have been so blind, especially while dealing with someone like Alex. Again, it feels good to let go, but not at the expense of his life and everyone else’s.  


He wonders if Alex would be clever enough to come up with a scheme like Nat has suggested. Then he thinks, _of course he is_ , but then again, no, Alex wouldn’t. He’s clever but not vengeful.  


Even with thoughtful reminders from nearly everyone surrounding him, Washington has managed to fall perfectly in love. And he despises himself for it.  


Nat stays in the car once they reach the executive building. Washington finds his way to the elevator, without saying a word to anyone. Once on the floor of his respected office, he notices that his door is ajar--which annoys him considerably. Washington keeps his door closed for a reason. Upon entering, the lights flick on with the motion sensor, and he finds that the room is empty--even though he left Alex here.  


Shit.  


He tries not to think about the worst possible scenario--which would conveniently fit Nat’s theory--and calmly walks over to the scene. His desk chair is half turned and his desk drawer is open. Anger wells up inside him as he realizes Alex had been sitting behind his desk, on his computer. Nothing innocent could have happened here.  


He sits down and opens his email. The most recent message is from Jefferson, which has already been opened, and not by Washington.  


_RE: JWA Expansion_

_Washington, we’re currently staked out at the hotel on the ninth floor of the parking garage. Care to join us?_

 

_(Sorry I’m emailing you. I would have called but I left my phone in the office and Jefferson #2 only had his laptop. Come alone, of course, and unarmed. )_

 

_Warm regards,_

_Jefferson #1 xox_

 

The email wasn’t specific enough for Alex to get into any trouble.  Perhaps he is just in the bathroom.  


But he realizes one minor detail he could have easily overlooked. He closes his desk drawers and picks up a notepad, which had been in his drawer. He runs his fingers over the paper and notices there are subtle indents of writing. Washington is praying silent prayers in the back of his mind. He looks for a pencil and eventually finds one in his VT mug, and shades lightly over the inscription.  


He makes out, in Alexander’s handwriting, _hotel parking garage 9th floor. Alone, no weapon, Jefferson_ . _Expansion???_  


He sighs.  


Good god.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy sunday! Thank you for your support! ily all of you and I've missed you dearly.


	35. Red Roses for a Blue Boy

The cab stops and he realizes he’s right outside of the hotel.   
  


The cabbie looks over his shoulder expectantly and Hamilton hands him a twenty before stepping out. The building is palatial, just as the name indicates. The Soho  _ Grand  _ Hotel. Grand indeed. He had never noticed the luxury it entailed, because he’d been so distracted last time, he hadn’t gotten a chance to soak it all up. The last time he was here, George fucked him and then he chased Laurens down the street.   
  


But now, he’s here on a business venture and he doesn’t have time to sightsee. He doesn’t even feel bad about it. Fuck George Washington. He pulls the sheet of paper (with the vague details of the email scribbled on it) out of his pocket and re-reads it. It takes him a moment to discern his own handwriting and he’s annoyed for a brief moment. He hardly needs to look for a parking garage when he sees a sign directing him as need be.  
  


He walks into the cement building, and spends idle time making his way to the ninth floor. It occurs to him that transporting oneself through one of these bad boys is best done with a car. The physical activity in the blistering cold is making his lungs ache and his throat sore. He stops on the fourth floor to catch his breath. The stairway smells like piss and old rubber.  _ Grand indeed _ .  
  


When he reaches the top, a tall, well-dressed man with big, wild hair is leaning on the hood of a white porsche, right in the center of the rooftop, singing loudly. He doesn’t notice Hamilton right away, but the young man walks with purpose and the echoes of his heels clicking seem to catch Jefferson’s attention.  
  


Or--at least Hamilton  _ thinks  _ that’s Jefferson.   
  


“Are you Jefferson?” he demands, and his voice booms in the empty garage. He resists the urge to shudder-- _ why hadn’t he grabbed a fucking coat _ ?  
  


“Who’s asking?” It’s an honest inquiry, it sounds like.  
  


The wind is blowing and it’s probably going to snow tomorrow. He thinks it’s best if he remains at least  _ partially  _ indoors. He gets near enough to make out the guy’s features, but Hamilton doesn’t step too far out. The man has dark, bright eyes and a sharply trimmed beard. His afro is windblown and bouncy. He’s dressed impeccably. “How many minks did it take to make that coat?” Hamilton sneers. By now, he assumes it’s Jefferson. The man cocks his head curiously, and Hamilton realizes there is another man in the driver’s seat of the porsche. He’s spectating, Hamilton guesses, but either way he can’t really see him through the tint.  
  


“Look, kid,” Jefferson begins, redirecting his attention. “I don’t know who you are but I’m in a pretty good mood tonight so I’ll let you off with a warning. There are six guys on the roof with snipers aimed at your greasy little head. One wrong move and it’s  _ goodnight, Irene _ .”  
  


Hamilton becomes shifty. “Would you have informed George of that?”  
  


“George as in Washington?” Jefferson narrows his eyes, but then his eyes widen as if he’s just had an epiphany. “You’re the detective.” It isn’t really a question, but it could be.   
  


“Former.”  
  


To the man in the car, Jefferson declares, “Our favorite’s gone and sent his mistress to do his bidding! How awful is that?” To Hamilton, he asks, “What, was he too busy getting his dick wet with guys half his age? Or does he only stoop to your level because your intel is so valuable?”  
  


“He sent me here,” Hamilton grits out. This guy is insufferable. No wonder everybody hates them.  
  


Jefferson turns his full attention back to Hamilton. He approaches the boy slowly, hands in his pockets, eyes locked on his. “Let me tell you why I don’t believe you,” he begins gruffly. All warmth has left his voice. “You’re with the law enforcement. Or, you  _ were  _ with the law enforcement, but that doesn’t quite make a difference in my book. Now, our George might be fawning over you, and balls deep in love, but he would  _ never  _ give you permission to do something like this.”  
  


“I’m a grown man,” Hamilton snaps almost immediately. “I do what the hell I want. George is my boyfriend, not my father.”  
  


“But he’s old enough to be, right?” Jefferson smiles. Hamilton’s cheeks flush deeply at the consistent side remarks. He remembers the snipers on the roof. Jefferson continues, “My point is, he would never put you in harm’s way. James and I? Worst of the worst. I could kill you right here without batting an eyelash. And I’d feed you to my fucking cat.” He bends at the waist so that’s eye to eye with Hamilton and brushes a knuckle over his cheek. “So. Either he doesn’t know you’re here, or he really doesn’t give a fuck about you. Which one is it, princess?”   
  


Hamilton’s scowl deepens.  
  


After a moment of appraisal, Jefferson whispers, “Does he know you went through his emails?”  
  


Hamilton feels every urge to step back, to put some distance between himself and this lunatic, but his pride won’t let him move. “Fuck you.”  
  


“One of these, huh?” Jefferson seems amused, standing up to his full height, raising an eyebrow. “You know, Alex--Alex, right?--I can smell fear. I smell it like copper wire and wood shavings all the time.” His loud heels click on the cement ground as he paces a slow, menacing circle around the young man. “It is unmistakably the most pungent and invigorating scent, I promise you. I can smell it through doors, through vents, through  _ jackets _ ,” he hisses in Hamilton’s ear, but Hamilton keeps his eyes trained straight ahead, constricting every muscle in his body, forcing himself not to flinch. “And yet I can’t smell it on you.”  
  


“You have snipers on the rooftops, but you told George to come alone and unarmed,” Hamilton spits, breath coming in white puffs. “You’re a fucking coward.”  
  


Jefferson laughs and Hamilton rolls his eyes. “So tell me what  _ courage  _ is, Alexander.”

  
“You can’t possibly think George would be stupid enough to fall for that shit, right?” Hamilton remarks viciously.  
  


“George? No, of course not. And yet, here  _ you  _ are.”  
  


Hamilton is mentally cursing himself out. What the fuck is wrong with him?  
  


“James had a rough day,” he gestures to his car. “I wasn’t going to kill George. But I’m really considering your scrawny ass.  
  


He rolls his eyes again, barely fazed. “You won’t lay a finger on me. George would have your ass thrown in a garbage compactor.”  
  


“Let me ask you something,” Jefferson begins, crossing his arms. “Do you smoke?”  
  


“No.”  
  


Jefferson nods slowly, looks out over the side of the building and looks back to Hamilton before saying, “One of my favorite capos did. Died from lung cancer last week.”  
  


Hamilton stares at him (with piqued interest), but doesn’t speak.   
  


Jefferson continues, “His name was Merrian.”  
  


“That’s a girl’s name,” Hamilton opines.   
  


“He’d killed men and seen a thousand more die before he was your age,” Jefferson continues, ignoring the comment. “Every night, before he went out on his wars, he would roll his own cigars and pray. He believed it would be war that killed him, but he didn’t have anything to worry about. Ironically it was the cigars that eventually did him in. He was 47.  
  


“He could have fought in ten thousand battles and lived, because ultimately, his fate was to die from cancer.” Jefferson’s eyes are, again, looking out over the horizon. “I don’t smoke either. Which means the chances of me dying by a gun is higher,” and with that, he has a revolver aligned with Hamilton’s nose. “Which means so is yours.”  
  


At the unexpected sharp turn, Hamilton is speechless. His breathing is quickening and he can’t feel his fingertips. His head is becoming increasingly foggy with each passing moment. His eyes are wide and his lips are trembling.  
  


Jefferson cackles, “You should see the look on your face!”  
  


Hamilton is still too stunned to speak and his heart is pounding so hard, he’s dizzy. He mentally kicks himself for forgetting his medication.  __ GreatI’mgonnahaveafuckingheartattackandit’sallmyfuckingfaultohmygodohmygodI’mgonnadie  
  


“Now, if it’s your fate to die tonight, when I pull this trigger, your brains are going to find themselves a new home on the concrete,” Jefferson croons, voice low. “A bit of Russian roulette for the soul,” and with that, he presses the cool muzzle against Hamilton’s head and takes a deep breath.  
  


Headlights flood his vision, albeit they are behind him. Tires screech and two car doors fly open, paired with the smooth metal click of a gun cocking behind him and a low, familiar voice saying,   
  


“Thomas.”  
  


“Washington,” Jefferson says warmly, and Hamilton almost sobs with relief. The car door behind Jefferson slams shut, and the man from the porsche has his gun pulled. Aimed at George perhaps. Annoyingly, Jefferson asks, “Is that a ruger or are you just happy to see me?” There’s another click, and Hamilton hears Mr. Greene say,   
  


“Is that fucking Hamilton?”  
  


“You sent this snot-nosed brat to our meeting?” the man from the car demands, eyes narrowed.   
  


“It was a misunderstanding. He’ll be dealt with. Stop pointing that fucking thing at him.” It’s the first time Hamilton has heard George’s voice without seeing his face. It feels unreal.  
  


Hamilton wants to turn to see George and Mr. Greene but he can’t look away from the chrome revolver, pressed flush against his skull. What if that thing were to go off? He almost pisses himself. His heart is thudding in his neck and he feels lightheaded. His breaths are coming in quick gasps now. He forgot to take his fucking blood pressure medication. Did he take it yesterday? Shit. It’s nine at night, but Hamilton sees bright lights and he can’t see shit, simultaneously. The world around him sounds like it’s underwater. George’s voice sounds garbled and distorted.  
  


“I think,” he begins softly, “I think...I’m gonna--”  
  


“Jesus Christ,” Washington growls, tucking his pistol into the back of his slacks and hustling to retrieve Alex, whom has fallen out. His face is pale and he’s unresponsive, to which James is on the ground immediately checking his pulse.  
  


“What the fuck,” Thomas whispers.  
  


“Does he have any heart problems?” James inquires.  
  


“He has high blood pressure, and he never takes his medication,” Washington mutters, removing his own coat and draping it over Alex’s body.  He stabilizes Alex’s neck and wonders why the fuck hadn’t the boy dressed warmer. “He gets overwhelmed easily.”  
  


“What the fuck just happened?” Nat demands as James checks his pupil dilation with his flashlight on his phone.  
  


“He fainted,” Washington answers, warming Alex’s hands. “My guess is he had a panic attack. Or a heart attack. Or something.”  
  


“What a bitch,” Thomas responds.  
  


Washington’s glare could melt steel beams. He’s up in an instant, charging Thomas, growling under his breath. “You’d better hope he  _ fucking  _ lives, Jefferson. For the love of God. you’d better  _ pray  _ he’s fucking alive.”   
  


Nat steps between them, hands braced firmly on Washington’s shoulders, restraining him as best he can. “ _ No _ , boss, not now,” the underboss tries to block Thomas from his view. “Focus on the kid, yea? Focus on your boy, he needs you more than Jefferson does.”  
  


“Thomas, call an ambulance,” James instructs. “It looked like he was hyperventilating.”  
  


“No. No ambulance. We’re not calling a fucking ambulance,” Nat hisses. “He’ll rat the moment he wakes up.”  
  


“Not helping,” Washington mumbles, returning to Alex’s side, checking his pulse again. He can just barely feel it. “Alex, baby,” he whispers, smoothing his hair over his head. “Come on. Stay with me. Come on.” To James, he says, “He was freezing.”  
  


“I’m not calling an ambulance,” Thomas rolls his eyes.   
  


“He needs help,” James snaps. “He’s a kid. You shouldn’t have been waving that thing around in his face, Tom.”  
  


Washington can feel anger boiling in his chest. But right now, he has to focus on Alex. He’ll deal with Thomas later. “We can’t take him to a hospital. That’s too dangerous.”  
  


“You don’t trust him?” James asks with some sense of urgency. “At a time like  _ this _ ? If it was a heart attack, he’s could be suffering some major traumas. Pick your battles, Washington.”  
  


“It’s circumstantial,” Washington says, lifting Alex into his arms, draped bridal style. He cradles his limp body to his chest and sighs. He looks like an angel. He gives in. Nat was right, he has gone soft. “Nathanael, you’re in charge until I get back. I’m going to take Alexander to the hospital. See to it that the capos and their soldiers return home safely. And if you need to, accompany Pacon and Gray to the harbor. We might be a while.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've been waitin literally ALL WEEK to upload this chapter hhh
> 
> there are 127 days left in the year. 
> 
> drop a comment!


	36. North

It’s been two hours since Laurens arrived at Trenton, and now  Hercules is home. Very quietly, he opens his front door and takes in his living room. It’s warm, which is a relief from the numbing cold he had endured all day. As he takes off his coat, jackets, and boots, his phone thumps onto the carpet from his pocket. Hercules ignores it for the time being.  
  


He pads down the hallway, and sees Pippa lying outside of Trin’s door--he pats her head approvingly--and peeks into his little girl’s room. She’s sound asleep, with Bull curled up at the end of her bed. She looks like her mother in the dim light. However, with the way she’s fallen asleep, it looks like it will make her neck stiff, and Hercules gently arranges her into a more comfortable position. Upon satisfaction, he kisses her forehead and closes her door again and returns to the living room.  
  


Everyone had gone out for a drink to celebrate Trenton but truthfully, Hercules isn’t a drinker and prefers to be by himself. Laurens told him fondly that if he kept up the good work, he would give Lafayette some work to give to Hercules. Probably take him out of the police force and put him onto the junk business. He thinks about the repercussions and how much adaptation that would take. Perhaps he would switch crews and work for Laurens, instead. Well, at least with the police force he has a legitimate cover. Though in the junk business, he’d probably get paid a ton more.

Tonight, Hercules is too exhausted to think about it.  
  


He scoops his phone up from his foyer and checks it. One text from Alex an hour ago, saying, _we need to talk_. Immediately, he knows what the problem is. He puts his phone away and lays down on the couch. He prays he can get to sleep before the images of Trenton begin haunting him.

 

* * *

 

Washington heads back to the office after having dropped Alex off at the hospital. It was in his right mind to leave him on the curb. But instead, he did one better, and left him in the lobby. _What an asshole,_ one lady had sneered. Washington said nothing and left. She was right and he knew it. He wanted to stay. God, he wanted to sit in the waiting room until he had word of Alex’s news. But he couldn’t bring himself to. Not after today.  
  


In his mind, Alex had every right to be upset with him. That much is evident. Washington wasn’t completely honest and had endangered him a few times in their relationship.  
  


But Alex had no right to go through his personal business and almost get himself killed. He’s had problems with information being leaked recently and he can’t have Alex around if he’s a snitch.  
  


No, the only viable solution, as far as tradition goes, would be to kill him.  
  


But if Washington wanted to kill him, he would have thrown his body in the harbor while he was already unconscious.  
  


He sighs, stares at his nearly empty glass. He’ll spend tonight in his office. Nat sits with him, in front of his desk.  
  


“What happened with Jefferson?”  
  


Washington sips his whiskey in silence. He rubs his closed eyelids and groans. “Laid his ass out.” He recalls the image of Jefferson’s bloody face. His knuckles sting. He twists his rings and he flexes his hand.  
  


Nat chuckles and lets it dissolve in the silence. “Pacon and Gray dumped the bodies.”  
  


“How many?”  
  


“Sixty-seven.”  
  


“Any children?”  
  


“A fourteen-year-old named Wiley and a ton of sixteen-year-olds. They’re in popular demand because they’re minors but they have fucking sense,” Nat snorts. “If they get lifted, cops cut them off the hook for a pretty penny. Unless, of course, they’re repeated offenders. Then they get five months in the playpen and they’re right back on the streets, doing the same shit again.”  
  


Washington sits back in his chair. “Do we have any children in our crews?”  
  


Nat ponders the thought, and then says, “I’m sure we do. But the youngest we’d probably take is thirteen. Any younger and it’s a waste of  resources.”  
  


“Dismiss the children from the ranks,” Washington commands. “We can’t be noble men if we’re killing babies for our own gain.”  
  


“Dunno if you noticed, Boss, but we aren’t very noble men to begin with. We're planning on taking over the government,”  
  


His mind wanders and he doesn’t speak for several minutes. He stares at the ceiling, swirling his drink in his glass, watching the city lights melt against his walls.  
  


“I told you. He might be a rat,” Nat concludes suddenly, eating the olive from his drink.  
  


As if he’d expected it, Washington replies, “He wasn’t wearing a wire.”  
  


“Neither was Donnie Brasco,” Nat rationalizes.  
  


“It’s not an undercover job,” Washington assures him.  
  


“But how would you know?” Nat shoots back. “For all you know, he could be following a script.”  
  


Washington sighs. “Part of me knows you’re right.  But I also know Alex isn’t plotting to kill me.”  
  


“No, you don’t know that.”  
  


“Nat, stop it.” Washington frowns. “Now you’re just becoming redundant.” He swivels his chair to stare out of the window behind his desk.  
  


“You’re so stubborn,” Nat scoffs, looking away. “Everything is right there in front of you and you don’t wanna believe it, Boss.”  
  


“All you’ve told me is what I already know. But somehow we’ve formed two different assessments and mine is just as valid as yours,” Washington says simply, watching the city life at night.  
  


“Listen to yourself,” the underboss mumbles dismissively.  
  


“I’m not accustomed to being spoken to like that,” Washington mentions as a warning.  
  


“That innocent until proven guilty shit is bullshit. That’s how so many fucking criminals get away with shit they’re clearly are responsible for. You soft motherfuckers always want evidence like shit like _this_ isn’t evidence enough.”  
  


“So what do you propose?” Washington retorts, spinning back to face his underboss, slamming his glass down on his desk. “Huh? You want us to assume he’s a rat and knock him off and ask questions later? What’s your solution, Nat? What’s your angle?”  
  


“You want him to prove his loyalty?” Nat demands. “Have him kill his precious partner. Prove he’s not with them.”  
  


“Why are you _so set_ on convincing me that Alex is against us?”  
  


“Because perhaps if you’d listen, you’d _gain_ something,” Nat’s grey eyes darken. “You _know_ that if I’m right, none of us will be fucking left alive for me to say I told you so. Fucking listen to someone, George, for once.”  
  


Washington feels rage coiling up in his throat. He growls, “I think you’re the one ratting.”  
  


“ _Me_ ?” Nat demands. His eyes are bright with fury as he stands up, leaning over Washington, who remains seated at his desk. “Are you kidding me? You think _I’m_ the rat when I’ve done nothing but fucking clean up after _you_ ? You’ve gone soft, George, and now you’re fucking sloppier and more naive than ever! I’ve been nothing but loyal to you! I’ve been _patient!_ And when I fucking bring to your attention that your fucking _boyfriend_ could be a rat, you accuse me of being a fucking _snitch_ because you can’t have your way?” Nat’s chest is heaving. “I’m doing you a fucking favor, because somebody around here needs to keep a fucking eye on you! He has you wrapped around his finger, George!  
  


“Next thing you know, that little bastard has all of our information down to our blood type and he’s dangling our lives over our head. Is that what you want? I’m sorry but I’ve just about had it.”  
  


Washington’s teeth grate. He stands up, nose to nose with his underboss. Right as Nat’s sure Washington will punch him in the face, the boss walks away. He moves to his bookshelf, and slides out an inconspicuous black leather book. Nat watches him closely, adrenaline pumping.   


“Do you know how I found out Alex was a detective?” It’s an honest question. Nat doesn’t respond, so Washington continues, “He actually told me on our first date. Dinner at my place. He liked my sweater.” He seems pleased at the memory. “I asked what he did for a living, and he said, very plainly, that he was a detective. At first, my thoughts were what the fuck and then I was charmed because he seemed so proud of himself.”   


“Okay, Boss, maybe he didn’t hide the fact that he was a detective, but maybe he already knew you were a boss and played dumb,” Nat frowns. “I don’t dislike him. I really don’t. I have nothing against him. But some of this shit doesn’t add up. My job is to protect you and that’s what I’m doing.”  
  


“But that doesn’t mean he’s ratting us out.” Washington says very seriously. “And now he’s in the hospital, unconscious and I don’t even know if he’ll ever wake up.” In the back of his mind, he hopes (for Alex’s sake) that he doesn’t. “Granted, he had no right to go through my belongings, but trust me, there isn’t _anything_ you haven’t said that I haven’t thought about in depth.”  
  


“What are we gonna do about the Jeffersons? They’ve proven to us that they can’t be trusted,” Nat says, almost blandly.  
  


“No, they’ve proven to us that they have a short temper.” The boss turns his attention to the book he’d collected from his shelf and flips through it. “As awful as it sounds, it was Alex’s fault he ended up in that situation. Nobody told him to do what he did. And anyway, I’ve already taken care of Thomas.”  
  


Nat kind of chuckles, and Washington shoots him a glare. The underboss, almost curiously, asks, “So, what about your emails?”  
  


“I’ll talk to Alexander about that. Anything that needs to be discussed with him, I’ll handle it.”  
  


“Like you handle everything else, right?” It’s sarcastic and bitter.  
  


“You can start heading home for the night.”  
  


“Suit yourself,” the underboss shrugs. He collects his things, leaves, and slams the door behind him.  
  


And as for Washington, he returns to his window, stares out of it, and thinks about Alex.

  


* * *

  
  


Hamilton hates hospital food. If he were to participate in an ice-breaker get-to-know-me game, for his fun fact he would include that he hates hospital food. Nothing has changed. He doesn’t eat the food that he’s offered and even at the doctor’s orders, he refuses. It’s a good thing he never really goes to the hospital, though he’s somewhat aware of why he’s here.  
  


“Mr. Hamilton,” the nurse says. “You have to keep your blood sugar up or you might faint again,”  
  


“That jell-o is shitty,” Hamilton says with confident resolve.  
  


“And yet you have to eat it,” she responds fairly. “Please just cooperate. These are steps toward your recovery.”  
  


“Oh yea? And who’s gonna make me eat it?”  
  


“Mr. Hamilton,” a male nurse says, from the doorway, “You have a visitor,”  
  


George appears and suddenly Hamilton is embarrassed. His eyes drop to his neglected jell-o and both nurses shuffle past George and he closes the door behind them. He has a bouquet of flowers but he doesn’t say anything for a moment. They both listen to the heart monitor.  
  


Hamilton breaks the silence. “Are those for me?”  
  


“Those nurses just want to help,” he responds, pointedly dropping the flowers into the trashcan. “Eat the jell-o.”  
  


Hamilton shifts awkwardly. “I’m sorry about what happened last night. I thought about it, and I wanted to apologize.”  
  


George is quiet for a moment, and then asks, “What did they say was the reason you passed out?”  
  


Hamilton, taken aback by the question, stutters, “Um , G-George, I’m sorry about your emails and the parking garage and, like, stressing you out. I didn’t, like, mean to--” he pauses, swallows his words, and lets his head tip back onto the pillows that are propping him up. “Sometimes I do really dumb shit, and I like--I’m sorry about everything.”  
  


George seems to ignore this and seats himself at Hamilton’s bedside. “When are you being released?”  
  


“Are you even listening to me?” Hamilton asks, frustrated. “I’m trying to apologize and you won’t--”  
  


“Forget it.” George snaps, and he seems irritated.  
  


There’s a moment of silence. It’s steady but empty. The heart rate monitor seems louder and more annoying than before, and George avoids eye contact.  
  


“Give me your hand,” Hamilton says, quietly. George gives him a funny look and slowly slips his large, rough hand into Hamilton’s smaller, warmer one. Hamilton spreads George’s hand out with his, using both of his hands to flatten out George’s. He runs his thumbs over his palms. “A woman on the beach, when I was growing up in Nevis, always told me I would have a good life. She read palms for two bucks. She always read mine for free. I was, like, twelve,” he laughs. He’s silent for a moment as he observes George’s hands, turning them over, running his thumbs gently over the new bandages on his knuckles. Rough, strong hands. Fighter hands. He can see bruises blooming under his knuckles, cuts and scrapes on his fingers. “Did you get into a fight?”  
  


“Had to rough up a few people.” George casts a sideways glance to Hamilton. “Namely Jefferson.”  
  


Hamilton’s heart flutters. “Remember that night when I told you I loved you?”  
  


George almost immediately looks flustered but squeezes Hamilton’s hand. “Yes,”  
  


“I said I didn’t care about the past, because we were gonna build our future together,” he continues. “And, like, shit has _really_ gotten outta hand, you know, with all this mob shit.” George nods in agreement. “But that doesn’t change what I said. Because I said what I said before I knew what the reality of the situation was, but I still love you, regardless.”  
  


George gives him a strange look and slips his hand back. Suddenly, Nat’s idea pops back up into his mind. _Have him kill his precious partner to prove his loyalty._ “Alex,”   
  


“And I don’t expect you to not be upset anymore,” he hurries to add. “Because I was wrong and it’s my fault this happened. And I’m sorry for touching your stuff. I won’t anymore.”  
  


Again, George gives him an awkward look of sadness and pity.  
  


“What’s wrong?” Alex asks, and Washington can feel himself cave.  
  


“We need to talk,” he says shortly.  
  


A very embarrassed Alex nods and folds his lips. “About?” He looks horrified.  
  


“Us. About you.” He inhales sharply. “Have you been gaining my trust in order to take advantage of information that you otherwise wouldn’t have access to?” As soon as he asks, he feels absolutely ridiculous. Of course he hasn’t.  
  


“You’re serious?” Alex asks, confusion settling in his features. “You’re really fucking asking me if I’m using you for goddamn--”  
  


“Alex.”  
  


“Fuck no! Here I was thinking you came to see me because you were worried about me,” Alex roars. “But you’re just here to fucking interrogate me!”  
 

“No, Alex,” Washington says. “Don’t start. Listen, I just need you to be honest with me.”  
  


“I _am_ being honest with you. No I didn’t fucking _steal your information_.”  
  


“Great.”  
  


Alex huffs as he crosses his arms, looking in the opposite direction from where Washington is sitting. Washington considers Nat’s proposal again. He considers mentioning it. A minute passes. Another minute passes. Finally, Alex asks, “Why would you ask me something like that?”  
  


“Protocol.”  
  


“Do you interrogate all your boyfriends, George Washington?”  
  


“Only the important ones,” he smiles.  
  


“Oh, is that right?” It’s teasing, almost with a flirty undertone.  
  


Washington chuckles as Alex leans over and kisses him on the cheek.  He sighs.  
  


“Talk to me,” Alex says, almost pleading. “What is going on? What has gotten into you?”  
  


“The truth is, I think there’s a rat somewhere in here.”  
  


“Oh god,” Alex whispers, glancing around on the floor. “I hate rats,”  
  


“Not the rodent. In our business, we call snitches rats,” Washington continues, voice low. “If this continues, it could be detrimental for everyone involved. Literally, all of us could die. Which means it’s really scary to trust anyone right now.”  
  


“Yea, but you can trust me, right?” Alex furrows his brows.  
  


Washington gauges Alexander’s face to determine his seriousness, and the boy is not joking. “I _want_ to trust you, Alexander. But after that stunt you pulled yesterday--going through my shit and not telling me what you were up to--” he pauses to let himself simmer down before he blows up. He sighs, looks back to Alex with exasperation. “That could have ended badly if I hadn’t found you in time.”  
  


“I already apologized, George,” Alex pleads. “I didn’t think it through at the time, I was just angry and hurt and I wanted answers and it sometimes feels like I can’t trust you, either.”  
  


He frowns. “I know.”  
  


Alex sheepishly looks away.  
  


Washington stares up at the ceiling. “We can’t be in a functioning relationship if we don’t trust each other.”  
  


“I want to trust you too, George, but you have to understand that we can’t work anything out if we keep shit from each other.”  
  


The mob boss sighs and massages the bridge of his nose. A headache is forming behind his eyes and he realizes that he needs to figure something out or he won’t be able to sleep tonight. “I know, Alex.”  
  


“So what now?”  
  


“I don’t know, Alex.”  
  


There’s a moment of silence.  
  


Suddenly, there’s a sniffle and Washington looks up to find that Alex is wiping his eyes and his bottom lip is trembling. Tears are rolling down his cheeks and Washington, genuinely baffled, asks, “Why are you crying?”  
  


Alexander sighs and says, “Because, George, this is the best fucking thing that ever happened to me. Good and bad, I never thought I would get to have someone like you.” He sniffles and mumbles, “I hate being so dramatic.”  
  


Washington pulls him into a hug and takes a steady deep breath in.  
  


“You know, the night I met you,” Alex begins, “I had this crazy ass dream and I used to think about it all the time. You and I were dancing at this party or something, but suddenly, we’re on this eternal plane and the sky is golden and beautiful but we’re standing on a mirror,” he pauses, readjusts himself in Washington’s arms. “But you were so far away from me and I could see your reflection on the ground like it was just as real as you are now. But the sky’s reflection--you know, on the mirror--was ugly, and hell-blazen, and scary. And you, like, became a demon-looking monster? I don’t know, it creeped me the fuck out; I woke up panicking.”  
  


Washington frowns in both confusion and mild offense. “And you still agreed to go on a date with me afterwards?”  
  


“To be fair, it was a fever dream.” He sniffles, and continues to wipe his face. “I’ve had a few weird dreams about you.”  
  


“I once had a dream that my flowers died. It was awful.”  
  


Alexander chuckles. “I’m glad I went on that date.”  
  


“Me too.”  
  


“Trust will take time to regain, but I think it’ll be worth it.”  
  


Washington begins slowly rocking, with Alex still held against him. “Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAAYYYY SOOOO i have another hamwash story idea that I've already started writing it & I'm really excited to start developing it! it'll be shorter (probably 4-7 chapters) but it's gonna be fantastic i hope!!! I'm excited to upload it!
> 
> also i couldn't wait till sunday morning so i (again) uploaded saturday night :)


	37. Moves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a forewarning (bc i feel obligated to) please note that the story disclaimer include graphic depictions (and descriptions) of violence. If you would feel uncomfortable, please turn away now. With that being said, enjoy.

_MAY_

 

“God damn us all.” George huffs a laugh and Hamilton sighs, “You did it.”  
  


“ _We_ did it.”  
  


“Now what?”  
  


George thinks for a minute. “Laundry.”  
  


“I’m serious,” Hamilton frowns, unamused. “You got the whole damn country.”  
  


“Except for Oklahoma,” the man purrs against Hamilton’s chest. “And Alaska.”  
  


“Penguins are not subject to your monarchy, King George,” Hamilton responds in an attempt at a British accent. He doesn’t do a good job.  
  


“One, that’s awful, don’t ever talk like that again,” George replies coolly, closing his eyes sleepily. “Two, penguins live in Antarctica.”  
  


At realizing his mistake, Hamilton throws his head back in a fit of laughter, slapping George on the head for bringing it to his attention.“Asshole. What’s going on in Oklahoma?”  
  


George, amused, clears his throat, and shifts so that he’s laying on his back, staring at the ceiling. “My guess is capo Ramon didn’t grease the feds as good as we thought he did. The Jeffersons are going to sort it out. They’re on a flight down there as we speak.”  
  


“So what are we doing?”  
  


“We’re minding the arms transport. A cargo ship will be here soon and I’ll be overseeing the unloading ports.” He sniffles. “Ukraine has a bad sense of humor. Once, they sent us forty crates of empty clips. As you could imagine, I wasn’t very happy. They thought it was hilarious.”  
  


“I meant me and you.”  
  


“Oh. We’re relaxing,” George says with a smile, kisses Hamilton on the side of his jaw. “For now.”  
  


Four months have passed since the initial invasion by the JWA. It’s now May and the mob has managed to avoid a massive collision--which they were close to, courtesy of the Carolina gags. With the help of Hamilton’s diplomacy and the Jeffersons’ smooth talking, a seemingly inevitable conflict was thoroughly negotiated. As a result for his hard work, Hamilton was made George’s messenger and advisor. Hamilton not only felt honored, but important. He was tasked with the most delicate missions, and was in charge of operating on such a high level of secrecy, his entire position was virtually unheard of. He did (and does) his job well. George had oftentimes praised his good work. They’d began referring to the whole operation as the High Society, which Hamilton has always thought was a bit pretentious. But he has to admit, it has a good ring to it.  
  


Capet’s case is grey matter in the back of Hamilton’s skull now. It faded when his memory of the man did. His grip loosened when George opened up about the attack and his relationship with Capet--he was in Nat’s position. An underboss to George Washington. Who would have fucking thought? Marie Antoinette has since fled the country--she moved to France under Lafayette’s watchful eye. Charlie went with her. Burr has stuck around, twiddling his thumbs. He visits Hamilton on occasion, but they don’t talk often. It’s strange to think that they never became friends, even after their numerous escapades. Upon Hamilton joining George in the underworld endeavors, Burr had agreed to turn a blind eye to the couple and their business, in exchange for recognition at the highest level of solving Capet’s case. They never did find out who killed him, but Burr built a case around Fersen--the deceased neighbor. Hamilton should have been jealous. He thinks it’s strange that he didn’t even feel a twinge of resentment  
 

He thinks he should have at least despised Capet for being dishonest, but now look where he is. In one of the most esteemed positions in the High Society. He’d be a hypocrite.  
  


And thus, his bitterness toward his former friends has dissolved. He speaks to Hercules when he sees him and avidly avoids Laurens (due to his mild embarrassment following their night of debauchery). The Schuyler sisters occupy him when he’s bored at _Ad Hoc_ and he and Lafayette have not hashed out their issues. They have yet to.  
  


Even now it feels strange, lying in George’s bed with him, one arm strongly but gently cradling his body. Nothing is between them. Not space, air, nor secrets. Everything there is to know about each other is right there on the table. Their losses, insecurities, and deepest, darkest secrets. Their sweet spots and their vulnerabilities. It is obvious Hamilton has many more than George. It doesn’t change the fact that George still has a few, which makes all the difference. He wonders what would have happened if they hadn’t met. George doesn’t seem to notice his absence, because he sits up and stretches.  
  


Washington’s phone buzzes. After reading it, he mutters, “Go freshen up.” With saying that, Washington goes to look for his boxers.  
  


“Why?” Alex groans, pulling the heavy blanket over his head.  
  


“Apparently, the High Society is under heat.” Washington continues, pulling his boxers on and wanders off into his bathroom. Since the expansion south, JWA has bought out major police precincts. More than half of the country’s finest men and women in uniform are on their payroll. Except Robespierre. He didn’t believe in corruption, he’d said. Everyone has a price, Washington responded. Not him, he said.

 

* * *

  


It’s an hour earlier, at the New York City Police Department station and a posse of officers and detectives are gathered expectantly. The water cooler hums in the corner of the room. The grey carpet and the grey walls with the grey hair make the precinct exceptionally grey. The slightly disinterested group stands around a whiteboard, where the head of the department paces back and forth with a marker. On the board are several mugshots and candid photos of known JWA affiliates with the names of Washington, the Jeffersons, Greene, Franklin, Turner, and so on. But there is one photo in the center capturing a fine, familiar young man, name written in bold red ink  
  
This is the photo Robespierre references. “This is the new ringleader. I have evidence that he is responsible for most transactions, most truces, and most small scale gang wars that erupt all over the country. He is a menace. A pest that we have the responsibility of exterminating.” He stops in front of the board, gestures to the picture of the young man. “He is not the only one of his kind. There are others like him. But if we take him out first, the others will fall.”  
  


A few detectives and officers stir into conversation, some skeptical, some in agreement.  
  


Robespierre continues. “Some of you may recognize him. His name is Alexander Hamilton. Former detective. He once stood where you are all standing now. One of the most brilliant men I’ve had the displeasure of meeting. Sharp skills but a sharper tongue. Not too long ago, I got word from an unnamed source that he was doing business for this city’s mob. And as many as you know, this city’s mob is also  Los Angeles’ mob, Atlanta’s mob, Chicago’s mob, and Houston’s mob. And just about every other major city and capital in America.”  
  


Among the crowd is Hercules Mulligan, taking notes and scanning the board. He copies down the important points that Robespierre makes--the ones to send Lafayette. Something about a source and many points about Alex. Overall, it’s just shitty news. He taps them into a text bubble in bullet points.  
  


“For centuries, the mob has waged a war against justice and law. They have embarrassed us again and again and again. Well today, that ends.  
  


“To the left of Hamilton--your left, my right--, there is a man there that you all may or may not have seen before. He is sly, ruthless, manipulative, and powerful. A man whose army is built on ill-will and malice. Take a good long look, ladies and gentlemen. That is George Washington. Leader of the former Washington Syndicate.  
  


“To the right of Hamilton--again, your right, my left-- is the charming but deadly Thomas Jefferson, and beside him is his domestic partner, James Madison. These two men are the devil’s black heart. They are the most destructive and spiteful men you will ever cross. The leaders of the former Jefferson gang.”  
  


Hercules stares at the pictures and continues to type. Alex appears alert but exhausted in his picture--one Hercules assumes was a DMV photo. He doesn’t have a mugshot like the rest of the men do. The General’s austere eyes are heavy under his full brows, bundled up in a black coat and a crimson red scarf. His posture commands dominance. Hercules had no idea what the General looked like until now. To think, all these years he served a man and he can finally put a face to the voice. Hell, he can even put a _name_ to a name. George Washington is the General. Jefferson’s smile is easy and cunning, meanwhile Madison’s straight face is bored and disinterested. He wonders if these are any indications of their personalities.  
  


“Washington’s underboss is here,” Robespierre smacks the board with a wooden instructional stick, placed firmly on the picture of a dark man, whose picture was placed strategically beneath the General’s, stormy grey eyes shining angrily. “Nathanael Greene. Ex-convict, college graduate, businessman. He is the muscle in Washington’s army.”  
  


Hercules knows that this is entirely untrue. _Washington_ is the muscle in Washington’s army. Greene is the voice. He’s met Greene before and has spoken to him quite comfortably on some occasions. He looks just as angry in his mugshot as he does in real life. Mean guys. Loyal to a fault. He continues typing vigorously, so as not to fall behind.  
  


“James Madison simultaneously occupies the underboss and advisor position to Jefferson. He doesn’t talk much but don’t let that fool you. He is always the brains behind the operation. _Always_. Which leads me to my next point.  
  


“There has since been an expansion of these two gangs. A genius scheme.  Down south and out west. I have word that they are working together to achieve some empire. Our mission, officers, is to stop them by any means necessary.”  
  


An older officer, beside Hercules, asks, “How’re we goin’ ‘bout it, sir?”  
  


Robespierre responds darkly, “Take out the shepherd and the sheep will scatter.”  
  


Hercules presses send.

 

* * *

  


During his lunch break, Hercules is called to Robespierre’s office. He isn’t very specific on his request, only if Hercules has a moment, and if he minds coming by for a second. Hercules said yes, he had a moment, and no, he didn’t mind. So here he is.  
  


“Detective Mulligan,” Robespierre begins, taking a seat behind his desk. It’s much too large for such a slight man. He laces his fingers, which is something Hercules has never seen him do before.  
  


“Commissioner Robespierre,” Hercules responds to match him.  
  


“Now, correct me if I’m wrong,” he says, a bit too warmly for Hercules’ taste, “But you’ve served this force for a total of seven and a half years. Is that correct?”  
  


“That is correct, sir.”  
  


“And while serving this force, you’ve done an outstanding job. You are a fine detective indeed, Mr. Mulligan,” Robespierre smiles.  
  


“Thank you, sir,” he responds, without emotion. Robespierre’s attention, solely focused on him, is making him a bit uneasy.  
  


“Can I ask you something?” He sits forward, hands folded. He’s neared a whisper, but in a comical sense.  
  


“Sure.”  
  


“Why do you serve, Hercules?” he prompts, almost challengingly.  
  


He thinks for a moment, and then says, “To make the community a better place for my daughter to live.”  
  


“Is that it?” The commissioner prods. “Are there no _underlying motives_?”  
  


Immediately, his stomach turns cold. “What are you insinuating, sir?”  
  


Robespierre rolls his eyes and sits back into his chair. After a brief moment of silence, he says, “I like you, Hercules. You’re an intelligent young man--”  
  


“Not that young,”  
  


“--younger than me. Anyway, you’re loyal to the shield and you always do your job as an example to set for your co-workers. But I’ve gotten word from a source that this isn’t where your loyalty truly lies.”  
  


“Sir?”  
  


“Hercules, we are friends. For lack of a better term. I’ve grown to like you in these past five months that I’ve been here. You’ve never given me a hard time and your persistence is something I am truly grateful for. You’re an excellent detective. But you’ve been being dishonest. I only ask you to answer me because I already know the truth.” A pause. “Are you a soldier in the Washington Syndicate?” His eyes are steady. His tone is inquisitive, not scolding.  
  


Hercules is taken aback, but he keeps his mouth shut. The code of silence is rule of thumb. A beat passes.  
  


“Hercules.”  
  


Silence.  
  


The commissioner continues, with a hint of annoyance, “You are aware that I would not bring this up unless I had a significant amount of evidence to prove against you? Don’t lie to me when I already know the truth. That’s a mistake you do not want to make.” It’s final.  
  


 _You think I’m the only one_ ? He wants to ask. _This place is rife with soldiers._ A moment passes and for some reason, he panics in his mind but doesn’t move a muscle. How has Robespierre been getting information to swear by? Any number of people in the mob could give him this but it seems like he knows who is to blame. He observes his own hands, balled into fists. “Who’s the snitch?”  
  


“I can’t tell you that,” he huffs.  
  


Hercules frowns.  
  


Robespierre sits back silently. Having not received a negation or otherwise, it confirms his suspicion. “Here comes the fun part!” he continues, a bit too enthusiastically.  
  


Hercules raises an eyebrow at him, but remains silent.  
  


Robespierre gestures around the office--which used to be Capet’s--and sighs. “What a lovely place, don’t you think?”  
  


“I would say so,” he says through gritted teeth. All the beating around the bush is killing him.  
  


“Would you like to keep your job?”  
  


He doesn’t speak. He could find work elsewhere, but it isn’t like whatever Robespierre’s offering doesn’t come with a catch. Hercules is not entertained and his expression implies as much. The commissioner, however, is enjoying himself.  
  


“You don’t say much,” his superior observes.  
  


“A wise man once said nothing,” he responds evenly.  
  


“Then I’ll tell you what, wise man. I’ll tell you what I’m after as well as what you have to gain from it. Is that fair?” he asks gleefully.  
  


He doesn’t object.  
  


“Turn in Hamilton.”  
  


Hercules is taken aback. First at the audaciousness, and secondly at the demand, itself. Alex? Why would he want Alex when he could easily get a capo? “Alex  is a very minor figure in the whole thing, sir--”  
  


“You say that and yet I don’t hear you. It has become personal. He’s close enough now to the whole scene where he could tell me everything I wanted to know--with the right _persuasion_.” He says it with a hint of spite. The ends of his lips curl into a devious sort of smile. His fingers are drumming lightly on the desk.  
  


“Waterboarding is illegal,” Hercules interjects.  
  


“I will interrogate him with methods _I_ see fit.”  
  


“With all due respect, no.”  
  


“You haven’t even heard what I have to offer you,” the commissioner pouts and Hercules thinks Robespierre must think he’s interested. Well he’s not.  
  


“What part of 'no' do you not understand?”  
  


There’s an awkward pause in the exchange. “If he’s a minor figure, you shouldn’t have a problem turning him in,” Robespierre says thoughtfully, but doesn’t continue. He eyeballs Hercules, who has just barely refrained from saying, _He’s my friend._ He doesn’t have anything to add, so he doesn’t say anything at all.  The commissioner sighs. It’s obvious that he has decided that he is done playing nice. “Give me Hamilton or I’ll find him myself and have you both taken care of. Once I get Hamilton, I’ll get the rest of them, with or without your help.”  
  


Hercules locks eyes with him, but doesn’t say a word.  
  


“Think about your _daughter_ , Mr. Mulligan,” he coos. “Think of her going into foster care while you’re in Bedford for life, when you had a _perfect_ opportunity to save your own ass at the expense of that useless brat..”  
  


“I could give you a capo,” Hercules says, unmoved. He wouldn’t, but it’s still a thought.“A bigger fish.”  
  


Robespierre stares at him for a moment, and then gets up, walks around Hercules, appraising him for a moment. “Turn in Hamilton, and I’ll grant you immunity when shit hits the fan. I’ll even throw you a bone, who knows?”  
  


“I’ll give you a capo, if you give me the snitch.”  
  


There’s a frustrated sigh behind him. “Hamilton or no deal.”  
  


He can’t win. Hercules frowns, eyes drop to where Robespierre had been sitting. “He doesn’t know anything. He’s a _lap warmer_ , for Christ’s sake.”  
  


“He orchestrates most of the crime committed in the inner city. Is that false?”  
  


Hercules knows Alex. Knows he wouldn’t willingly participate in crime, and knows sure as _hell_ he wouldn’t fucking organize it. “Who told you that shit?” Hercules growls. Whoever it is, isn’t informing Robespierre. They’re framing Alex.  
  


“That’s not important.”  
  


“Actually it fucking is,” he snaps. “Whoever is feeding you this bullshit hates him just as much as you do,”  
  


“It makes no difference,” Robespierre continues idly.  
  


“If you want an orchestrator, I know a few. But _Alex_ ? You wanna throw him in Rikers after hearing _lies_?” He frowns.  
  


“Rikers?” Robespierre seems surprised. “No, he’s not going to jail. In order to go to jail, there must be a trial. I planned on taking care of things a bit more,” he pauses as he considers himself. “ _D_ _iscreetly_.”  
  


Hercules can only imagine what that could mean. “Fuck you.” No fucking way is he handing Alex over to this fucking clown.  
  


“What do you care for him?” Robespierre scoffs. “You’ve been lying to him, too. You think he’ll give a shit if you keep him out of trouble? That ungrateful little bastard will maul you alive anyway once word gets out that you’ve given away his whereabouts.”  
  


Suddenly Hercules wonders why he’s always selected to go after Alex. “But I fucking didn’t.”  
  


“He won’t know that,” the commissioner chimes. Suddenly, he’s right by Hercules’ ear, leaning over him, saying lowly, “Remember, the law is on my side.”  
  


Hercules doesn’t take his eyes off of the desk in front of him. “And remember,” he says. “The mob is on mine.”  
  


Robespierre straightens his back. “Is that so?” Next, his right arm is hooked under Hercules’ jaw and he’s pressing his arm shut with his left hand and forcing the detective’s head into his arm. He’s holding his breath as Hercules struggles against him, fighting to breathe, but Robespierre has the upper hand. He kicks and reaches behind him, in attempt to reach the assailant’s face, to no avail. His strangled gasps and grunts prove ineffective, and his strong kicks to the desk in front of him don’t help, either. The room is suddenly bright and his head is pounding, but it slowly fades to black. After another moment, the larger man slumps into unconsciousness, and the commissioner, out of breath, releases him, and steps back.  
  


He walks around to his desk and plops back down into his chair. He observes Hercules for a moment. Barely breathing. Good. He picks up his desk phone and dials a number, fixing his hair, which was disturbed during the struggle. The line picks up, and calmly, he says, “It’s Max. I’m going to need some help.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> leave a comment ;)


	38. Hagia Sophia

Within the hour, Hercules regains consciousness. He’s in a dingy room and the air smells particularly stale, but not necessarily awful. Stale, nonetheless. He’s tied to a chair in the room alone. Now that he thinks about it, he’s never thought he’d end up in this situation. But then again, who does? Then he wonders why he never paid any attention to escape scenes like this before and mentally kicks himself. His head is still swimming; he’s still a bit drowsy. The last thing he remembers is Robespierre and their stupid discussion.

Hercules still doesn’t know why he’s always chosen to go after Alex, kill Alex, betray Alex, follow Alex.. And his dumbass is still friends with the little piece of shit. He tugs a bit at his hands, which are bound well behind his back. He sighs. How the fuck did he even end up in this situation? He thinks for a moment. He isn’t sure if he should blame Robespierre or Alex for this one, because evidently, it’s not his fault he’s here. At least that bit of information is comforting.

He hears the echoes of Robespierre in the hallway and his best option right now is to feign unconsciousness until he figures out what to do since he has no idea where he is or how long he’s been here. He slumps forward, which is the position he was in when he’d woken up, head hanging over his chest, shoulders burning at the tugging strain. He doesn’t quite have anyone who would be waiting on him, aside from Trinity, who is likely safe with Irene at daycare.

A heavy metal door swings open. “He’s still out cold,” he hears Robespierre’s voice at the far end of the room.

“I told you the chloroform was kind of unnecessary,” Another man adds, but his voice is unfamiliar to Hercules’ ear. “It’s been at least forty minutes.”

“You think maybe he’s dead?”

“I doubt it. I’ll give him another ten minutes. If he’s not awake by then, I’ll douse him in ice water. Works like a charm.”

“Why not do that now?” Robespierre demands. “I’m tired of waiting.”

“Well it’s your fault we _are_ waiting,” the man sallies. “I’ll go get the ice bath ready. In ten minutes, like I said, we’ll let him have it. You go make sure he’s still breathing.”

At this, Hercules begins to panic inwardly. He might flinch if Robespierre’s hands are too cold, he might see Hercules’ eyelashes flutter, he might say something funny, in which case, Hercules will laugh. The more he thinks _don’t laugh_ , the more he wants to laugh. Perhaps he should feign rousing into consciousness even though he’s already awake. The thought of an ice bath is not appealing. He waits a beat, because Robespierre says,

“It doesn’t make a difference to me if he’s dead. We can throw him in the cut if it comes down to it.”

 _Okay_ , Hercules has heard enough. _Time to wake the fuck up_ . He groans just a bit, relaxing his shoulders as he sits back. This catches their attention, apparently, because they stop talking immediately. In no time, Robespierre has rushed out of the room, pulling the other man with him, shushing him and slamming the door shut. Hercules almost laughs at his attempt to make a reentrance.

Hercules decides to play along. “Hello?” He calls blandly, closing his eyes lazily. “Where am I?” His tone lets on no sign of terror. “Somebody,” he drones. “Help me. Please.”

“So you’ve awoken.”  He hears his voice before he sees him. Robespierre then swings the door open, appearing in what looks like black leather pants and heeled boots, paired with a bright red sequin shirt, revealing his bare chest. Not a good look, Hercules assesses. It looks like something Lafayette would wear on a normal day. “How did you sleep?”

“What the fuck kinda James-Bond-wannabe shit is this?” the detective counters, ignoring the curious gaze from the man in the back of the room. He walks in behind Robespierre, but hasn’t spoken. He doesn’t look familiar. That must be the ice guy.

Robespierre cheerfully directs his regards back to the door, where two men enter, cracking their knuckles and rolling their necks. They look like the kind of guys that would intimidate first-time gym-goers from ever returning. Their built bodies are barely concealed in their thin, dirty t-shirts. The scowls on their faces paired with the scars on their lips, arms and bald heads make Hercules a bit nervous. “This is Viktor and that is Yegor,” Robespierre continues, soaking up Hercules’ eclipsed look of alarm.

They silently but menacingly approach Hercules’ seat, standing on either side of him. They don’t say a word, but Hercules can hear their ragged breathing, like angry bulls, huffing through their nostrils. They smell like raw sewage. Suddenly he realizes he’s sweating.

“If you cooperate,” Robespierre continues, appraising Hercules’ look of unease. “Things will go a bit smoother for you. If you don’t, there is a price to pay.”

He huffs out a chuckle. “You think I’m gonna flip just because you brought in some tough guys to beat my ass?” He glances up to Mario and then to Dennis, and says to Robespierre, “You’re stepping into a world you don’t understand. I’m not a fucking rat and you sure as hell won’t make me one.”

 

“Maybe not, but you are definitely a piece of work,” Robespierre glowers.

“Like I said. I want the spy.”

“Do you know what I realized when I was transporting you from the precinct back to here?” Robespierre asks. “It’s that you’re in no position to bargain with me. You’re a soldier; you have no leverage.”

Hercules rolls his eyes. “You demand that I go after Hamilton in exchange for immunity. I obviously have some leverage there, at your doing.”

“You aren’t the only one I could ask. I was doing _you_ a favor,” the commissioner says sharply. “You have no power. Your capo tells you to jump and you ask how high.” Then, his look of anger subsides and is replaced with a more devious smirk. “It’s no matter. Viktor. Yegor. _Ubey yego_.”

 

* * *

 

 

John’s cigarette is stomped out and forgotten in the grass. He returns to _Ad Hoc_ , shutting the doors behind him. A fraction of his crew has gathered in the back of the building, behind the scenes, sitting at the tables where meetings are held.

“As of late,” John begins, and silence falls. “A few of you guys’a been makin’ me real proud. Real proud to be a capo. I got some big earners in my crew, don’ I?” He looks around. “Vanetti, I’m real proud’a you, fool. Magasano, keep doin’ what you’re doin’. Ricci, yous a blessin’ to this crew. An’ Abano, baby, next time clip someone that don’t got your phone numba.” He lifts his drink to the soldiers in salute, and the men grin, Abano bashfully. John’s smile falls as he looks among the rest of the men.

He continues, “But the rest’a yous must got the wrong idea. The rest’a yous must’a forgot that Lieutenant Laurens’ reputation in this fuckin’ family is as a big-earner.” He begins pacing through his seated men, each step echoing through his empty bar. “The rest’a yous ain’t been kickin’ up the right amount’a dough. I look at the numbers. We’re in the _junk business._ I fuckin’ know how much’a the cut I’m s’pposed to get back.”

The men exchange odd glances amongst each other, but no one speaks without permission. John keeps his temper in check for the time being.

He continues, voice even. “So.” The syllable is punctuated with the click of his heel. “I’mana ask nicely. Aggio, Marino, Bruno, Morretti, Giuseppe, Bianchi,” he goes on, listing his soldiers’ names. “Couco, Rossini, Zanetti, fuckin’ Dimure, Sono, and Colombo.” He slams his pistol onto the bar counter, demanding attention, making a few men jump. “WHERE THE **_FUCK_ ** IS MY MONEY?”

The room is silent.

He tucks his hair behind his ear, eyes hard. He scans the mens’ faces, unimpressed and still upset. “Oh, so now nobody can speak, huh? You lazy mothafucks can sell my junk and skim my fuckin’ money right under my nose but can’t talk to your boss?”

The few capos that were praised shift uncomfortably, to which John says, “You guys’a my golden boys. You’re all gettin somethin’ special. But as for the rest’a yas, you can forget any downtime you mighta had.” He crosses his arms. “The rest’a yas is on the carpet. If Greene finds out my numbers are low, I’m gonna kill each of you fuckin lousy ticks my fuckin’ self. Do I make myself clear, ladies?” There’s a mumbled affirmation. John huffs. “An’ you’re lucky one’a you fools don’t get it right now just to make me feel better. ‘Cause Boss is gonna wanna know what’s up with my numbas and I’ll have to tell him you fuckin’ insects’a been stealin’ from me.”

A stifled cough has him swinging around furiously, scrutinizing the crew members as they sit before him, intimidated and shamefaced. They all avoid eye contact, as an indication of their guilt, to which John becomes even angrier.

“I want my money back,” he snarls. “An' by hell or by highwater, you bastards are gonna get it for me. Now get outta my sight before I fuck one’a you guys up forreal.”

They shuffle out, not making a sound, even the small group that was praised. John sits in silence in his bar, lights a cigarette, and begins flipping through his monthly copy of _National Geographic_ , which has just come in the mail.

 

* * *

 

In Washington’s office, Lafayette is seated before Washington, with Alex idly watching half-interested from the windowsill beyond Washington’s desk. Neither of the two are very interested, which the capo picks up on and embarrassedly shuffles his feet. Lafayette and Alex have not since repaired their mutilated friendship, and understandably, Alex is not too fond of him. Lafayette hasn’t voiced his opinion on the matter.

Washington ignores the elephant in the room. “What do you have for me, Lafayette?”

“About an hour ago, a soldier of my team in the police transmitted information,” the Frenchman says. “According to Mulligan, there are photos of you, Turner, Greene, the Jeffersons, and Hamilton in the offices. I do not know what other information he might have, but they know your names and positions. Robespierre said Hamilton is the new leader and ordered his officers to pinch him,”

Washington nods slowly and Alex tenses.

“He also mentioned several times that he had a _source_ , who had given him information,” Lafayette continues. “My men came to me and I came straight to you.”

Washington rises from his desk and finds his way over to his liquor cabinet, where he takes down three empty glasses from a shelf, without a word. He pours three glasses of bourbon, which of course, he personally appreciates. He hands one to Lafayette and one to Alexander, and sits back down, taking a sip from his glass.

“Do you know what I find ironic about me liking bourbon?” he asks, with seemingly no alarm.

Lafayette, confused, says, “ _Non, monsieur._ ” He tilts the glass this way and that but does not drink from it.

“Taste it,” Washington says, a bit too firmly.

The capo obediently sips the silver of liquor, licking his lips afterward.

“Well?”

“ _Tres bon_ , _monsieur._ ”

“In the early days, everybody hated bourbon. It was bitter, awful stuff. Now everybody loves it. True _American spirit._ And our Society is the exact opposite. At first everyone loved and respected us and now we’re being hunted like fucking animals.” He pushes his drink aside and sits forward, folding his hands in front of him. “Lafayette. I know you’re a noble man. But in order for this Society to stay healthy, we can’t have ‘ _sources_ .’ I want you to find the snitch.”

Alex makes a small noise somewhere behind him. Washington’s attention is cast to the boy, and so, Lafayette’s is, too.

“What does ‘pinch’ mean?”

“He’s trying to arrest you, but if he’s investigating us, he must have an underlying motive,” Washington says. And to Lafayette, he continues, “Since you’re the one telling me Alexander is in danger, I’m making you responsible for him.”

“Sir--” Lafayette begins, but Washington continues, voice louder and firmer than before.

“If he dies, you die. If he’s lifted, I’ll send you into prison myself and have you look out for him.”

“I don’t need a bodyguard,” Alex whines.

“You, stop talking,” Washington snaps, and Alex falls silent. “Once Robespierre has an idea of Alex’s whereabouts, none of us are safe. Lafayette, I want you to get a team together. I don’t care who you put on, as long as it isn’t Ross. Old girl has gone and had herself a baby.”

Lafayette looks none too pleased. “ _Vous voulez que je protège cette merde et que je trouve le pigeon des selles?_ ”

“English,” Washington says pointedly.

“Both tasks?” Lafayette asks, exasperated. “Sir, you asked me to find the rat and I can do it. But protection is not my specialty.”

“Hire someone out,” Washington snaps, becoming more and more irritated. “I don’t give a fuck how you do it, I just want it done.”

“Yes, sir,” Lafayette says stiffly.

“You’re dismissed,” Washington mutters gruffly and Lafayette gathers his things and leaves without a word.

Once he’s gone, Alex walks around Washington and sits where Lafayette had been sitting, across from Washington. Concern is etched into his features and he stares at Washington, asking a million questions without opening his mouth.

“I know,” the boss mutters. “It’s scary. I didn’t think the commissioner would come after you.”

Alex frowns pensively. “But what about you?”

“Baby, I’m fine,” Washington assures. “They can’t touch me. It’s you I’m worried about,” he breathes, massaging his temples. “It’s just a lot. This fucking cop doesn’t know where the line is.”

“It’s drawn in the sand,” Alex reminds him. “You don’t have legitimate power.”

“Of course I do,” Washington snorts, patting his thigh as an invite to his love. “Let me tell you something.”

Alex smiles shyly and accepts Washington’s graciousness, barely able to contain himself. He gracefully joins Washington, sitting on his lap. He begins to straighten the man’s tie and smooth down his collar. He hums to himself when Washington begins speaking.

“You’ve been helping me out these past months with the High Society. But this is what I was worried about. They’ve put a target on your back and you can’t go just anywhere now,” he says solemnly, massaging Alex’s thigh. “Lafayette’s gonna get some boys to accompany you everywhere. They’ll follow you around and watch your every move. It’ll be weird but it’s for the best. Promise.”

Alex frowns, and it’s a pretty frown. Washington kisses him lightly on his rosy lips. “I can take a few cops, George. I was one, once.”

“That has nothing to do with what I’m talking about,” the man insists. “If Robespierre finds you, he’s not gonna take you back to the station and interrogate you. He’s gonna try to muscle you into submission to get what he wants. It’s not pretty.”

He gives Washington a hard stare, but looks away finally. “So you’re saying he’s gonna try to get me to talk?”

“He’s going to do _anything_ to make you talk,” Washington stresses and Alex sighs. “I wouldn't be able to sleep unless I knew I had someone watching you.”

Alex rolls his eyes and gets up. “That sounds fucking weird.”

He tries a different approach. “Robespierre was a Marine. I sent his name to the war office. He was in Desert Storm.”

Alex glances over his shoulder at Washington.

“He crossed minefields and watched a hundred men die at the hands of the Iraqis. Then he was in Afghanistan after 9/11. Then he went back to Iraq. When he returned from the war, he found that his wife and two sons had been killed in a home invasion. He tracked the guy down and tore his stomach open with a kitchen knife. He’s fucked up in the head, Alex."

“How is he even in a position of authority, then?” Alex asks, bewildered. “Shouldn’t he be in a fucking ward somewhere?"

“That was ages ago. You were still a kid then,” Washington explains. “He saved the life of a young Marine named Joey Cvitanovich in Afghanistan. Afterwards, Joey introduced him to his father, Dimitri Cvitanovich--a boss in the Alaskan gangs. Immediately, Cvitanovich offered to do anything for Robespierre--you know, for saving his son’s life--and Robespierre asked that he dump a body and get rid of any evidence."

“Of course, Cvitanovich agreed. Dumping bodies is a specialty in the mob. And while Cvitanovich worked out the details of his own escape back to Russia, Robespierre befriended Joey. Robespierre never saw Joey’s father again, but Joey is somewhere around here,” he mumbles. “His case never saw the light of day."

“And you know all of this from the war office?” Alex prods, teasing.

Washington chuckles. “When you are a boss, there are certain things that you find out just from networking."

“Do you know Joey or Dimitri?” It’s an innocent question coming from Alex, but Washington shifts uncomfortably.

“Dimitri has a nephew. I know his nephew because he was the prick we had problems with in the Alaskan gangs,” he spreads his hands in a _you understand_ gesture. “They call him Titan for some reason. If I push too hard on Alaska, _Bravata_ will intervene and I’d rather not deal with them."

“Who is _Bravata_ ?” Alex frowns. 

“Russian mafia,” Washington answers flatly. “I’m not too eager to confront them."

Alex laughs and the whole room brightens. “No, I wouldn’t be, either. Anyway, what does that have to do with Robespierre?”  
  
  
“I’m gonna walk out on a limb here,” Washington mumbles, taking Alex’s hand. “And say that Robespierre’s ulterior motive has something to do with _Bravata_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy sunday!
> 
> don't worry, all of this has a connection, I'm not just randomly adding twists and turns to the story. have faith in your author <3 
> 
> leave a comment :)


	39. Heart-shaped Kisses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a forewarning (bc i feel obligated to) please note that the story disclaimer include graphic depictions (and descriptions) of violence. If you would feel uncomfortable, please turn away now. With that being said, enjoy.

Ragged coughing and gasping constitute most of Hercules’ lung power. In most cases, he is levelheaded, especially when it counts the most. Viktor and Yegor have taken a brief break, at Robespierre’s shout, “ _ Stoy!” _  Hercules is pretty sure his ribs are bruised and his jaw is fractured. His legs are stinging and his wrists are smarted. Blood is pouring from his nose. However, he’ll bet he doesn’t look as bad as he feels.   
  


“The General has such a powerful influence on you boys,” the commissioner praises. “The toughest ones always get it the worst, you know.”   
  


Hercules spits out a clot of blood, and with it, one of his teeth. His breaths are shallow and coming like an irregular pulse. “I ain’t gonna talk. You’re gonna have to fucking kill me.”   
  


“That can be arranged,” Robespierre muses. “But I thought you would realize by now that I have more people who could give me Hamilton. You’re useless to me at this point.”   
  


Hercules huffs, casting a glare to Robespierre, body wracking with every strangled breath. “My loyalty is to the General. To  _ Alex _ .”   
  


Robespierre rolls his eyes. “Ah, yes.  _ Loyalty _ ,” he snarls. “Loyal to one’s fate. Loyal to a fault. If I were you, I would consider accepting what I offered you.”   
  


“I don’t know why you’re bothering to negotiate with me.” Hercules growls, slumped in his chair.   
  


“Because I like you. Are you willing to throw your life away for  _ Alexander Hamilton _ ? Need I remind you that you have eight premeditated murder charges under your belt already?”    
  


Hercules’ eyes glint but he does not respond.    
  


Robespierre continues. “August, 1992. You gunned Armie Shapiro down in cold blood in the parking lot of a convenience market. October, 1992. Vinnie Baschal. Found dead on a children’s playground set. January, 1993. Wolfgang Hurst was stabbed to death outside of a bar. April, 2000. Benny Friedman was kidnapped and beaten, body found in a stairwell. June, 2000. Carlton Mark was found in his garage, beaten to death with his own bat.” He folds the list in half. “These were brutal fucking murders, Hercules. Were they assignments from your capo?”   
  


“Yea, and they all deserved what the fuck they got,” the soldier spits again. His jaw is sore.    
  


“Seems like you took a break from playing vigilante for a while. But then in October, 2009 you bashed in Manny Dupree’s head with a sledgehammer. What was that about?” Robespierre asks, but his words are not innocently curious. His tone is dark.    
  


“That one was personal. Boosted some of my boss’s dough. I remember him ‘cause he had this nasty scar across his face from when Benedino smacked him up.” He closes his eyes. “He was the only one who didn’t beg for his life.”   
  


“June, 2013. Arlee Addison was found dead in his apartment. And, of course, January, 2017, Louis Capet was found dead behind that church. Isn’t that right, Hercules?” Robespierre sneers.    
  


The soldier snorts. “I didn’t kill him.”   
  


“But the jury doesn’t know that,” the commissioner says, matter-of-factly. “Not to mention the plethora of racketeering, gambling, armed robbery, drug trafficking, child endangerment, and aggravated assault charges you have on top of all this. You won’t be subject to sympathy, Hercules. You have a minimum of four lifetimes in prison.” He scoffs and adds, “It wouldn’t even have been a question to put you out of your misery, like putting down a rabid dog.”   
  


Hercules sits forward, and takes a good long look at the commissioner. There’s something inside of him that just refuses to break. It’s reckless and it’s brave but it’s stupid and he knows it. Very slowly, he says, “Commissioner, I want you to listen very carefully to what I’m about to say.” His insides are shaking but he refuses to allow it to overtake him. “I might be a murderer. I might be a liar, a thief, a cheater, a bad father, a felon. I might even be a goddamn soldier in the Washington Syndicate.” His nostrils flare at the intensity of his exhale. “But make no mistake. There is one thing I am not. A  _ snitch _ .”  
  
Robespierre howls with laughter for a solid minute. He slaps his thigh repeatedly, as though he has never been more amused in his life. His crazed laughter shrieks, and he nudges Viktor and Yegor as if to ask if they share his amusement. They don’t move.    
  


“How noble! Hercules, you poor fucking thing,” Robespierre jeers. “You sound ridiculous! Do you think any of them are gonna give a shit once you’re dead? We’re going to find out where Hamilton is, anyway, and they’ll trace it back to you! They’re going to see you for what you truly are:  _ weak _ .”    
  


He leaves the room, leaving Viktor and Yegor staring at him intently, but neither of them says a word. The faint sound of Robespierre’s annoying laughter is still reverberating in the hallway beyond the door. Hercules closes his eyes.    
  


The air is suddenly a lot colder than he remembers it being. It nips his skin and chills his bloody lips. His fingertips are numb and he can only hear himself breathing. It’s distant and abnormal, the way his whole body heaves for the fraction of a breath.     
  


A loud slam has his anxiety spiking and for the first time in a long time, dreaded fear sinks into his gut. He hasn’t felt this fear since the day his wife died. He doesn’t look up. The solid click of heels on the floor and the swish of fabric sound normal, and for a moment, he convinces himself that he’ll live.    
  


“Viktor. Yegor.  _ Ukhodi. _ ” he hears a warm, deep voice. The two men obey his command and leave, conversing in Russian. Hercules lifts his eyes and finds the unfamiliar man from before, eyes boring holes through him. The man approaches him with his hands in his pockets, casually appraising him before saying in clear English, “You don’t have to deal with this, you know.”   
  


“Who the fuck are you?” Hercules mutters, voice hoarse.    
  


“He wasn’t bluffing about the murder charges,” the man continues, stooping in front of Hercules, face to face.   
  


A scoff, and Hercules responds, “I know how this is gonna end. And it won’t end in a fucking courtroom.”   
  


“That’s true,” the man concedes. “Those men are going to beat you until you’re dead, and Max is going to let them.”   
  


“So what are you?” Hercules snorts, his heart jackhammering through his veins. Fear tears into his chest and up into his throat like ice. “Some sort of chaplain? Here to get my confession?”    
  


“I’m here to convince you that you have a rich future. It seems pointless to let you die,” the man says flatly, merely observing Hercules with courteous speculation.    
  


“So you’re helping me?” the captive inquires. Something is not adding up, and something about this guy is off putting. He can’t put his finger on it, though. But he’d like to get his arms untied.    
  


“Well,” the man says shortly. “Yes.”    
  


“Untie me.”   
  


“No.”   
  


Hercules groans, defeated.    
  


“Let me rephrase that,” the man says at last. “I’m helping  _ you  _ help  _ us _ . The objective is to find out where Alexander is. Beyond that, you aren’t of much use.”   
  


Hercules coughs again, wrenching his chest as he struggles to breathe. He hisses at the pain.    
  


“Do you read, Hercules?” the man asks casually, returning to his full height, and pacing the otherwise empty room. His loud heels click on the concrete floor. He doesn’t get an answer, so he continues. “Your name is striking.”   
  


“Not the first time I’ve heard that one,” the captive mumbles.    
  


“How are you always so composed?” the man asks, eyes glinting. “I’m curious. You haven’t shed a single tear and yet I’m fairly certain your ribs are fractured.”    
  


“What are you, a doctor?” Hercules scoffs.    
  


“Yes, actually.”   
  


Of course. He doesn’t respond. Focused on his breathing, he wonders what the world would think of him if his heart just stopped, right now. These fractured ribs would turn to dust and he would fade like the final notes of a symphony.   
  


“You’re not afraid to die,” the man says plainly. “Isn’t that right?”    
  


Hercules has never considered that before. He understands that at this point, he is faced with sudden death, but he isn’t afraid. If anything, he’s curious. Daring. He shifts his his seat, eyes on the man. “So what if I’m not?”    
  


The man regards him with a formal interest, quizzically scrutinizing the captive. “Fascinating. Absolutely astonishing.”    
  


He feels unease overcome him, a daunting, looming light in the back of his mind flashing a warning signal. He closes his eyes and feels his breath escape. 

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


“Yo.” John talks around the cigarette hanging from his lips. Phone wedged between his shoulder and ear, he holds his magazine in one hand, and his drink in the other. He has just finished an article about the earliest human lifeforms and their tools that have been recently recovered.   
  


“ _ Jean _ . We have a task,” Lafayette says from the other end, wind whipping through his words. “Where are you?”    
  


“Task?” John mumbles, removing the cigarette, tapping it on his ashtray, and flipping the page. “I don’ recall agreein’ to a task, Marq.”    
  


“Protection,”    
  


“Protection?” the capo repeats, just shy of bewildered. “Who’re we protectin’?”    
  


“ _ Alexandre _ .  _ Amant du général.  _ There is an immediate situation. I need to meet you in my room now.” The Frenchman sounds disoriented. He must be driving, John reasons.   
  


“Need me to round up somma my guys?”    
  


“This would be preferred,” Lafayette punctuates, and the line clicks.    
  


John takes a drag from his cigarette and begins skimming the next article. He vaguely wonders what situation might have Lafayette jumping to defend Alexander, unless of course, it is an order from the Boss. Then he wonders what situation might have the  _ Boss  _ jumping to call a crew of boys to protect Alexander. It must be serious, because otherwise, this is just an overreaction. However, he heeds Lafayette’s wishes and begins scrolling through his contacts. 

 

* * *

  
  
  


Hamilton recalls Lafayette’s exact words, later that night in the shower. He said  _ Mulligan  _ told him, and Hamilton is damn sure that means  _ Hercules  _ Mulligan. Besides, it would only make sense if Hercules is in the police precinct,  _ with  _ Robespierre. With all that said, how come Hercules hasn’t texted him, then? It would be normal for the man to send some form of outreach to Hamilton, considering the stakes are pretty high. Or maybe it has slipped his mind. Hamilton spends the night mildly ignoring George, who is in his study, reading.    
  


Hamilton watches his phone, wondering if it will vibrate with a text from the man. He suddenly feels guilty of his mistreatment of the man. The hours stretch, pulling light away from the sky. He does not receive a single message. He sighs. 

 

 

* * *

  
  
  


On the other side of the city, Robespierre waits patiently in his car, next to his Russian counterpart. Both he and the doctor are wary of disposing of any bodies.   
  


“Tell them to dispose of him quickly and quietly,” Robespierre orders. “I want him buried in the cut. Not a soul will know.”   
  


The doctor nods and turns to Viktor and Yegor in the backseat, translating Robespierre’s commands into perfect, pretty Russian. “ _ Vyryt yamu v gryazi i ubit etogo cheloveka  _ (dig a hole in the mud and kill this man).”     
  


The men gruffly mumble their pledges of obedience, and drag Hercules’ bruised body out of the car, down onto the side of the road.    
  


His head lolls, staring up at the spinning sky. He closes his eyes in prayer.    
  


“ _ Nachat kopat  _ (start digging),” Yegor mumbles, dropping Hercules’ feet into the mud.    
  


“ _ Ne govorite mne, chto delat  _ (don’t tell me what to do),” Viktor growls in response.    
  


“Stop that,” the doctor snaps, and they fall silent. “ _ Both  _ of you start digging or I’ll bury you  _ both  _ with him.”    
  


The men exchange bitter glances, and get to work.    
  


The doctor paces--which annoys Hercules--while he waits for the men to complete their task. Soon, with muddy hands, Viktor and Yegor have produced a hole, four feet wide, three feet deep. Hercules is slumped against a tree, watching through the darkness. He closes his eyes, sighing into the quiet night air. He can see Robespierre’s car through the trees, headlights low, car in hazard mode. He never thought he would die like this, but then again, only a dead man considers death.    
  


He looks up to the doctor, who has not looked up from his phone.    
  


“You are ready to die?” Viktor growls in poor English, saturated with his Russian accent.    
  


Yegor says nothing, only wipes his muddy hands on his jeans.    
  


The doctor, at the sudden noise, looks up, and then down at their hole. He scrutinizes it, and then shrugs. “Well, men. Get it over with.  _ Idti _ .”    
  


Hercules’ heart stutters, throbbing loud in his ears. Panic turns his legs to plasma, wrenching in his gut. He stares at the hole, not making a sound. The men stalk toward him, grabbing him by his shoulders and shirt collar, pulling him to his feet.    
  


He stumbles through the mud, barely able to move. But he won’t run. If he dies, he’ll die with dignity. His vision is blurring and he’s forced to his knees, at the edge of the hole. He closes his eyes. 

 

“Are you a religious man, Hercules?” the doctor inquires.    
  


He hears the click of a cocked gun, and a cool metal tip pressed to the back of his scalp. He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “No. But I believe in God.”    
  


“God has done you a favor today, indeed.”    
  


Hercules feels hot, ugly tears pouring down his cheeks and he hadn’t realized he started crying. His heart is fighting to crumble the tower of ribs that encase it, pounding so hard, his neck is throbbing. Maybe his heart wants to tear down the fragile shell, that Hercules has come to know as his own body, and fly away. Take all of his hopes and dreams and run, leaving Hercules numb before his execution. His breaths are coming in gasps, but if these men think he will break, they’re goddamn wrong. He’s sure Alexander would do the same for him.    
  


“ _ Poluchit Maks _ .” The doctor says, and he hears one of the men depart, but the gun stays at Hercules’ head. “ _ On zakhochet uvidet  _ (Get Max. He will want to see).” A moment of silence passes. “Do you have any final wishes?”   
  


“Find someone to look after my daughter,” Hercules whispers. “Find someone to take her away from this fucking city.”    
  


The doctor nods slowly. “I will agree to that. You have my word.”    
  


“Tell her I’m with her mom.” the man says, and his voice breaks. His words are coming out, choked through his tears. “Tell her I love her and I’m proud of her and I’m always with her. Tell her to say her prayers and that I’m so sorry,”    
  


The doctor shows no sign of interest, mildly observing Hercules. “You’ve had a tough life, boy.”    
  


Hercules doesn’t respond. The sounds of boots crunching through sticks and squishing through mud is enough to let Hercules know that Viktor or Yegor has returned, and with them, came Robespierre.    
  


“It’s a shame that it had to end this way,” the doctor says fondly. “ _ Viktor. Pristreli yego  _ (Viktor. Shoot him).”    
  


Gunfire rings loud through the clear night.    
  


Everything is still, except for the trees when the wind rustles the branches, pushing the green leaves against the black sky. The doctor looks on, appraising the situation, staring at the the dead body, which thuds on the cool mud as it falls, splashing the doctor’s boots. He makes a mental note to discard these when he leaves here. Viktor and Yegor remain silent.    
  


Hercules opens his eyes, staring at the stars as they blend into the satin sky. He holds no weight in his heart anymore. He looks up to the doctor, confused. He’s speechless.    
  


The doctor smiles. “My name is Josef Cvitanovich. Pleased to meet you.”    
  


If that name is supposed to mean something to Hercules, it doesn’t. He stares in silence, still trying to understand what has just happened. He looks behind him and sees Viktor and Yegor watching him, but he doesn’t see Robespierre, until he looks down into the mud. He looks back to the doctor, still unable to form words.   
  


“ _ Pokhoroni yego _ (bury him),” the doctor commands, and both Viktor and Yego move to drag Robespierre into the hole. “Stand up, Hercules.”    
  


Hercules scrambles to his feet, mouth dry, eyes wide, cheeks hot.    
  


“I just spared your life. Do you understand?” His tone is no longer warm.    
  


He nods.    
  


The doctor looks him over, grimacing. “You’re now indebted to me. You owe me your  _ life _ .”    
  


Hercules doesn’t speak.    
  


“I have a mission for you,” he continues, offhandedly. “We’ll be in touch.”   
  


Somewhere in the back of his foggy mind, Hercules knows that eventually he will wish that the doctor had just let him die. But for now, he just wants to go home and hug his daughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gotcha ;) happy sunday! 
> 
> drop a comment <3

**Author's Note:**

> New chapter every Sunday!


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